


Haven't You Heard? (I'm Not Yours Anymore)

by Sola_Ircadia



Category: Tekken
Genre: Ambiguity, Angst, Canon Compliant, Don't worry I'm just as confused as you are and I'm writing this, Introspection, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Sexual Content, Sort Of, Supernatural Elements, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2019-10-14 22:22:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17516912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sola_Ircadia/pseuds/Sola_Ircadia
Summary: There is a time to be stubborn, and there is a time to let go. Since Jin’s disappearance, Hwoarang has somehow wound up doing both of those things at the same time.





	1. I Heard You Down the Hall

**Author's Note:**

> I know what some of you are thinking: haven’t you already seen this title before? Why yes, yes you have. Since I kind of jump-posted the first rendition of this and then ended up not being satisfied, I decided to re-write it, and it sort of ended up being more than one chapter this time. Whoops. 
> 
> For those of you who read the original, this one is a little different, and I hope it makes more sense, narratively speaking.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the top of the haphazard pile, staring him right in the face, is the worst one of all. The one he’d just gotten yesterday, the one that had stolen the breath from his lungs and the strength from his legs and even now threatens to shatter the mug of tea in his hand.

 

To be fair, it doesn’t start with the news of Jin’s death.

 

It actually starts in the bloody and terrible aftermath of the fifth tournament, in that strange state of half-comatose brokenness that his rival had left him in following their match. During those three days of silence, he was not where he should’ve been, and his mind – whatever of it had even remained at the moment – was far elsewhere, spinning worlds to life with an imagination he hadn’t known himself to possess. Three days of searching, of wandering and wondering and trying to understand. Three days of trying to wake up because something just wasn’t right. Three days of Jin being there, by his side, speaking to him like he hadn’t done in years.

 

No, it doesn’t start with the news of Jin’s death, but Hwoarang wouldn’t know that. He doesn’t remember what happened before, during those three days, only what is happening now.

 

And what’s happening now is that he’s losing his mind.

 

* * *

 

_“Kazama!”_

 

His first breath of the morning catches in his throat, potentially killing a scream that he hadn’t even known was coming, he can’t be sure. It’s possible. Judging by his sweat-soaked T-shirt and inexplicable need for oxygen, it’s probably a little more than that.

 

The heinously early hour staring accusingly at him from the clock face only confirms his suspicions, and he groans, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. _3:19_. Too late to be going to sleep, too soon to be starting the day. A perfect hour to entertain wishful thoughts of finally chasing his nightmares away. He could just bury himself back under his blankets and hope for a miracle, but he has to be reasonable about _something_ in his life. There’s no chance of him getting back to sleep right now, not like this. Not after that.

 

Not after yesterday.

 

He huffs an angry breath, pushing himself out of bed and padding silently out of his room. The apartment is dark and quiet, even with the sounds of a sleepless city outside – he’s used to all of that by now, so it fades into the background, white noise that makes it all that much easier to discern something unfamiliar.

 

_“Hwoarang?”_

 

He freezes, a chill running down his spine. _All that much easier, indeed_. His first instinct is to look around, which is bullshit. He knows better. He is more alone than he takes any joy in being, but that evidently has very little bearing on elements of non-reality.

 

_“...are you alright?”_ A soft voice asks, and Hwoarang suppresses a sigh, tense posture collapsing as he admits defeat once more. As if everything else wasn’t enough, there’s also been...this. This...shit.

 

He doesn’t have a better word for it than that, not really. Not when it doesn’t make any sense, not when it won’t stop, certainly not when it implies such dangerous things. The fact that this is happening at all is bad news, but the fact that he hasn’t put a stop to it is even worse.

 

_“If you can’t sleep, some tea should help.”_ Jin’s voice says quietly, and yeah, he doesn’t have a better word for this at all.

 

He can’t remember when it started, especially when it got this bad – from the moment he’d met him, Hwoarang had been unable to go too long without hearing Jin Kazama’s voice. At first, it hadn’t been all that strange. He’d remembered their initial fight with vivid clarity, recalled his few words with rapt attention, the way his deep baritone had spoken the short sentences that would seal Hwoarang’s fate forever. He’d known it all so well, so to hear Jin’s challenge, Jin’s quiet affirmations, in his mind every now and then was totally normal. It had served to motivate him at the time, had given him something to strive for when all he really wanted was to get revenge on the world that had taken away what he loved most. He’d needed Jin’s voice talking to him – he’d needed _Jin_.

 

That theme had persisted in the aftermath of the third tournament, and Jin became his most important companion on frozen stakeouts and unsavory missions alike. In the years that followed, his voice had eventually dwindled to a whisper, lost under gunshots and bullet shells and running rivers of blood that stained the interior of his mind red, red, _red_. He was tired, and Jin’s voice wasn’t enough anymore. He needed something new to fight for, some other reason to remind him why he was alive.

 

(That’s what he’d thought, but when he’d learned about the fourth tournament, the loudest thing he’d heard had been Jin promising that they would fight again.)

 

A brief silence had followed this period, first because he couldn’t take it and then because he didn’t need it. Baek had come back into his life by this point, and his voice was infinitely more important than Jin’s, unfinished rivalry notwithstanding. His master’s presence, real and constant, had helped him focus, had made him whole again for the first time in years. By the time the fifth tournament had come around, he’d known he was ready for anything.

 

He thinks, perhaps, that that’s when everything changed. He’d defeated Jin, and Jin had...well. Jin hadn’t been entirely honest with him, but realistically, that wasn’t his fault. He doesn’t know how he feels about it, although he can’t bring himself to be as angry as he would like to be. He can’t blame Jin for any of it, even if he was wrong. He doesn’t know what that means, what any of it means – all Hwoarang really knows is that when he awoke from his coma after being nearly killed, Jin’s voice had since returned.

 

Jin’s voice had since returned, this time with a mind of its own.

 

Hwoarang’s hands are steady as he steeps the tea, but he can’t stop the uncomfortable sensation from rising in his gut. It’s hard to function when everything is so far off-kilter. Sure, he’s as stubborn as they come – all the more so, if his master is to be believed – but even he knows when to admit that things are running off the rails. Sometimes. It’s all relative, in the end.

 

He knows this is different. He’s not stupid – reckless, sure, maybe ill-suited for subterfuge if it involves using fancy language and manipulation, but he’s not _stupid_. He’s well-aware that something is terribly wrong, he just can’t quite pinpoint what the hell it is. Maybe if he’d had more time to think about it with a clear head, he could have.

 

With things now being the way they are, though, it’s unlikely that his mind will be ready to settle down anytime soon, let alone be set for thinking with a clear head. He has a hard time doing that even when things _aren’t_ shitty.

 

As if on cue, his gaze tracks to the kitchen counter and the mess of papers covering it. Newspaper clippings, magazine articles, official documents, anything he could get his hands on, legally or otherwise. Scribbled notes, phone numbers, leads and dead-ends and disappointment manifested.

 

(Jin Kazama, Jin Kazama, Jin Kazama.)

 

From the moment he’d regained consciousness following the fifth tournament, Hwoarang had become resolute on three things. One. To devote every last breath in his body to his master, because like hell he would find someone who gave that much of a damn about him ever again. Two. To beat Jin Kazama’s ass (devil or human, he’s not picky at this stage in the game) to hell and back, just to prove a point. And three. Find Jin Kazama.

 

The last one has proven to be easier said than done.

 

A quick study of the newspapers only restates what he already knows: following the fifth tournament, Jin assumed control of the Mishima Zaibatsu and immediately began driving its and his own reputation into the ground. Some of the more recent editions cover the coup d'état that went down, and newer stories still tell the tale that Hwoarang had not liked one bit: that Jin had gone missing.

 

At the top of the haphazard pile, staring him right in the face, is the worst one of all. The one he’d just gotten yesterday, the one that had stolen the breath from his lungs and the strength from his legs and even now threatens to shatter the mug of tea in his hand.

 

_Jin Kazama is dead._

 

Hwoarang swallows, turns away. Takes a sip of the tea he made, a customarily bitter brew that Baek used to give him after he had nightmares. _The tea that a dead man had suggested he make_. He’ll finish this, then go back to bed. He should go back to the dojang tomorrow – it has been a few days, after all, and that’s not like him. He supposes he should be grateful that Baek is giving him space right now. _Why do you suppose that is, hm?_ God, this shit is bitter. Is chamomile or whatever that stuff is that normal people drink to relax too much to ask for?

 

Hwoarang shakes his head. _Bed. Go to bed_. This is the kind of shit he can look at in the morning. Things would be easier that way, but for all his convictions, sleep does not come for a very long time.

 

* * *

“Hwoarang!”

 

His spine snaps into a straight line on instinct, seemingly without any input from his brain whatsoever. Thoughts, gnarled and heavy, flee instantaneously at the sound of his master’s displeased voice.

 

_Shit._

 

Hwoarang casts a nervous glance in Baek’s direction, internally wincing at the disapproval on his face. _Great_. Spacing out during training has never been a good thing, but given the current circumstances, it’s just downright rude. Baek has been kind enough to be patient with him about all of this – Hwoarang owes it to him to buckle down and get it together.

 

“Yes?” He ventures, resisting the natural urge to crack a sheepish and wholly inappropriate grin. His master gives him A Look that makes his back stiffen even more.

 

“Your form is lacking. You’re terribly unfocused today.” He says, and Hwoarang’s face burns with shame. His master doesn’t deserve this. Hell, _he_ doesn’t deserve this.

 

“Sorry.”

 

Baek shakes his head, exasperated without any of the usual good humor. Hwoarang can see the indecision on his face, the unspoken questions addressing the weight that currently rests on his shoulders. He would really rather avoid talking about his problems at this point, but that requires two things, and Baek keeping his silence on the matter – at least for now – is one of them.

 

The other, of course, is that Hwoarang should then behave accordingly. If he doesn’t want to talk, then he can’t let it affect his everyday interactions, especially not the moments he has with his master. Training requires focus, and if he doesn’t have it, he needs to _find_ it. The time for being distracted by the past is long gone. If he still needs a moment to work through all of this (to think, to dream, to mourn), then he needs to do it on his own time.

 

“Shall we try again?” His master is asking, a little gentler now, and Hwoarang nods vigorously. Interest. Focus. Intensity.

 

“If I do well on my drills, can we spar?” He hints, adding a color of his usual fire for good measure. Baek gives him one of his patented Almost Smiles in return, and Hwoarang counts that as a victory. This is fine. This is all he needs. He doesn’t have to let all that other shit weigh on him here.

 

He has to try, at least.

 

* * *

 

His table is a warzone.

 

What little of it that exists is, as it has been for days, covered in papers. If he had a free wall and some tacks, it’d all be up there, with the strings and stuff like in those crime shows. Like a detective. Like an obsessed person. Like someone who knows that the person they’re looking for isn’t fucking _dead_ and if they could just _find_ them, then everything would be okay.

 

As it is, though, he can’t fucking find him. Not that one day is really enough time for anyone to spread that sort of information, but _still_. There has to be _something_. Any indication of where he was when it happened, any sign of a location or a directive or fucking _anything_ that would offer a clue to Jin’s whereabouts.

 

It’s starting to get to him. Like it’s _really_ starting to get to him now. If this keeps up for as long as the rest of his Jin-related issues have, he’ll go absolutely insane within no time flat. Maybe he already is insane. That would explain the quiet but ever-present sound of Jin’s voice occasionally telling him to take a break or go to bed.

 

Thing is, he can’t take a break. He just. Can’t. There’s too much at stake here. That realization hits him every time he looks down and sees Jin’s picture staring up at him from one of the pages, black and white and serious as ever. The solemn, almost gentle softness is gone from his perfect features, replaced instead by a firm conviction with dark intentions. His brow still holds that same determined slant, but it’s misguided now, a fire on the verge of suffocating itself with the weight of its own goals. Hwoarang hurts when he looks at him, but it reminds him of all that he can’t afford to lose.

 

“All” being Jin Kazama.

 

He can’t be gone. He just _can’t_ be. Wouldn’t that be too easy? Wouldn’t that be unfair? He has to find him. What the hell else is he even alive for?

 

“Fuck.” He says aloud, then decides that merely saying it isn’t enough. “Fuck!”

 

He slams a fist against the table, trying not to haul off and fling all the papers to the floor. _That won’t solve anything_. He hates it when he ends up thinking like that, but he’s found himself doing it more often than usual lately. The futility of this whole situation has robbed him of his personal autonomy, of his drive, his ambition – everything is about Jin, now, and his own life is just a means to that end.

 

...maybe Jin’s stupid voice is right. Maybe he does need a break. He pushes away from the table, needing to distance himself from all his current frustrations. Some tea would probably help, even if the brewing process itself is more relaxing than the beverage itself at this point. He feels a little guilty for wasting his master’s special blends on shit like _this_ , but he’s getting desperate.

 

On his way to the other side of the kitchen, Hwoarang stops short, suddenly realizing that a very distinctive smell is already permeating the air. Confusion hits, then trepidation – _what the hell?_ A quick rounding of the counter reveals that yes, there is a mug of tea there already, steam still curling in the air. He stares at it for a long time.

 

_...did I make that?_

 

He can’t remember. He really can’t remember. Maybe he was so caught up in the routine of slogging through bullshit that he made it without realizing it...? Like...on instinct? Maybe? Hell if he knows. It’s there now, though, so he may as well drink it. Hell, if he’s this out of it, he may as well call it a fucking night, just finish the tea off, take a shower, and hopefully (hopefully) pass out.

 

Maybe.

 

* * *

 

The scream does not get caught in his throat this time, and he is jerked into wakefulness by the sound of his own terror resonating through the darkness. Sweat soaks his skin, his clothes, tangled sheets sticky and clinging – his whole body shakes, wracked with leftover tremors of fear and exhaustion.

 

_3:27_. That god-forsaken middle-ground hour again. The sound he makes is low and broken, miserable and just a little too wounded for his liking, but he can’t take it back now. Gods, he’s sick enough of this to cry about it. If he had the energy, maybe he would.

 

As it is, though, all he can really do is just lay here and stare at the ceiling. Try to catch his breath. Go through the usual pathetic and stubborn routine of hoping for more sleep before having to give in to reality and resign himself to the inevitable suffering.

 

Hwoarang’s gaze shifts to the window, the curtains there muting the glow of the lights outside. The room is bathed in the usual dim gray, dark enough to sleep but just light enough to see once his eyes adjust. The shapes of what little he has are visible to him from here, inanimate and silent, closer to sleeping than he’ll ever be. Bag, bookshelf, lamp, Jin, dresser –

 

He chokes, scrambling backwards into the wall as he registers what he thought he just saw. _Can’t be happening_. He forces himself to keep his eyes shut, unable to look back just yet. (What would he do if he saw him again?) _This can’t be happening to me_. He bites his lip, counting to ten.

 

When he finally opens his eyes, no one is there. The end of his bed is clear, save for a uselessly wadded blanket. No odd shapes, no strange sensations, no achingly distinctive silhouettes – nothing.

 

Of course not.

 

Hwoarang knows that he must’ve imagined it, but it doesn’t help him get back to sleep any faster.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Working Playlist:**
> 
> My House – PVRIS (The Empty Room Sessions)  
> My House – Wind in Sails (Cover)  
> My House – Boys of Fall (Cover)  
> In the Beginning, it is Always Dark – Brighter Than a Thousand Suns (Piano Cover)  
> Die For You – Starset (Acoustic Version)  
> The Night We Met – The Running Mates (Cover)  
> I Found – Amber Run (feat. The London Contemporary Voices)  
> Drown the Lovers – Ritual


	2. Straight Through My Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He intends on finishing his sentence with the word “business”, not that it matters. Not that anything matters, really. He doesn’t know what’s going on, only that his master must’ve kicked him in the head harder than he’d thought because that’s the only reasonable explanation for what he’s seeing right now.

The last thing he wants to do right now is go to see his master. After yesterday, after last night, after earlier this morning he is an absolute fucking wreck and there’s just _no way_ he can manage training today without making a complete mess of everything that has the misfortune of being touched by him. He’s trying to hold it together, he really is, but Baek will know that something is becoming increasingly wrong. The man always has been able to see through him like tissue paper. Normally, that’s not necessarily a bad thing, it’s just...

 

Baek already knows, to some degree, what’s on his mind. To see it getting worse within the span of a day will cause him to demand a deeper explanation, which just won’t end well for either of them. His master will realize just how badly Hwoarang has been dealing with all of this, and Hwoarang...

 

He just _can’t_ tell his master about his dreams, nor about Jin’s voice. As for “seeing” Jin earlier this morning, well. That’s simply out of the question.

 

He’s almost managed to rationalize it by the time the day begins, chalking it up to sleep deprivation and some insidious form of emotional instability. It just couldn’t have happened the way he thought it had. He’s “woken up” from enough dreams that were really nightmares within nightmares to be familiar with this sort of bullshit. He can’t let it shake up his day.

 

Hwoarang does his best to keep that in mind while prepping to head out, shoving it down as far as he can. It would help if he had his act together – as it is, he hasn’t been keeping track of his own shit very well lately. It’s all the more obvious when he literally can’t _find_ anything he owns. Like his foot guards. Or his gloves. Or his sense of self and indepe – never mind. 

 

“Now, where the fuck did I put those?” He mutters to himself, scanning his living room with hands on his hips. “I swear...”

 

His gloves are proving to be the most elusive article of clothing by far, remaining undiscovered even after everything else has already been located. He’s checked his room twice, the bathroom, the kitchen – seriously, what gives? Where could he have put them?

 

 _“Bookshelf.”_ Jin’s voice suggests, and Hwoarang shakes his head.

 

“Already checked there.” He says aloud, then mentally smacks himself. _Goddammit_. The last thing he needs to be doing is openly exchanging dialogue here.

 

_“Check again.”_

 

Hwoarang rolls his eyes but complies anyway, figuring there can’t be any harm in trying. He’s long-since given up on avoiding the advice that Jin’s voice offers – as disconcerting as it inherently is, it’s still pretty good most times. It at least _tries_ to keep him on track when all he wants to do is sit at his kitchen table for three hours and stare at blurry photographs of Jin Kazama’s face.

 

Shouldering open his bedroom door, Hwoarang is preparing to just hit Jin’s voice with the old “I told you so” before leaving again, but then he looks at his bookshelf, like _really_ looks at it. Stares, in fact, openly at the bright blue gloves laying innocently but obviously on the middle shelf. Where they most definitively were not laying before when he checked. Twice.

 

“What the fuck,” Hwoarang mutters to himself, snatching them up. “Did you do this?”

 

Silence. As usual. Fuck it, he doesn’t care. He has to get out of here before he’s late for practice again.

 

* * *

 

He does care. As a matter of fact, he cares so much that training is basically a near-disaster because of it. Now that he’s in this headspace, he can’t get out, and Jin’s voice is much, much louder than usual.

 

Typically, it’s at its worst whenever he’s alone at home. When he has too much time to think, to hurt, to search relentlessly for something (some _one_ ) who probably never really cared about him at all, _that’s_ when Jin’s voice is at its strongest. That’s when it suggests tea, meditation, training, a shower, whatever it thinks might help calm him down. Jin’s voice actively attempts to take care of him, which is ridiculous, obviously. He can take care of himself, and even if he couldn’t, he has Baek. He doesn’t need Jin, and he _definitely_ doesn’t need Jin’s voice in his head.

 

...anyway.

 

Today, wonder of wonders, is different. Because his life sucks even more than it usually does, apparently. It sucks so bad that Jin’s voice is now replacing Baek’s when he speaks, which is just unacceptable.

 

What’s worse is that it’s not even really saying much of anything that he can understand. It’s white noise, background chatter, indecipherable and unintelligible and annoying as fuck. It’s distracting him something awful, and Baek is noticing.

 

“Hwoarang,” he starts, and Hwoarang shakes his head. He’s been doing this a lot lately.

 

“Not today, please.” He says, just short of begging. “Can we try and work around this?”

 

Baek appraises him for several moments, face unreadable. Hwoarang resists the urge to fidget under his gaze, hoping that he can’t see too much of what’s hiding beneath.

 

Eventually, Baek sighs. He looks very tired, and not for the first time, Hwoarang feels a surge of guilt for putting him through this bullshit. _It’ll be over soon. I’m sorry for making you deal with this. I’ll get better, I swear._

 

“Perhaps sparring would help?”

 

Delighted, Hwoarang nods his enthusiastic assent. “Yeah!”

 

His master shakes his head, but there’s a hint of amusement to his actions now.

 

“Very well. Prepare yourself, then.”

 

“Yes, sir!”

 

* * *

 

Hwoarang feels much better following training, contrary to all beliefs and expectations. He really owes his master big-time (not that that’s any different than usual) for all of this...he’ll have to find some way to pay him back for all of this. Maybe he could find a way to get him a vacation...?

 

Still musing to himself, Hwoarang shoves his key in the door and shoulders his way into his apartment, slamming the stuff thing shut behind him. _Piece of shit_. He could use a damn vacation, too, come to think of it. Not that he can afford one or anything...

 

“How was training?”

 

Jin’s voice enters his consciousness, prompt and invasive as ever, and Hwoarang sighs.

 

“Why do you care?”

 

“You seem...agitated.”

 

“Well.” Hwoarang huffs, toeing off his boots and turning into his living room. “That’s none of your – ”

 

He intends on finishing his sentence with the word “business”, not that it matters. Not that anything matters, really. He doesn’t know what’s going on, only that his master must’ve kicked him in the head harder than he’d thought because that’s the only reasonable explanation for what he’s seeing right now.

 

Because what he’s seeing right now is a man sitting on his couch, dark-haired and broad-shouldered with heavy eyebrows and deep, arresting brown eyes. He’s looking straight at Hwoarang, expression faintly concerned, and holy fucking _shit_ that’s Jin Kazama. Sitting on his couch. That’s Jin _fucking_ Kazama, in his _fucking_ house, sitting on his _fucking couch_.

 

He thinks his head might be spinning. He might be getting tunnel vision. He also might be dead, concussed to death after a poorly-dodged kick from earlier. Baek will be devastated. Hwoarang can’t even find the wherewithal to care.

 

Jin, though, seems more with it than he is, because he leans forward, brow furrowing in what appears to be open worry.

 

“Are you alright?” Jin is asking, and Hwoarang can actually see his mouth moving to match the words he’s hearing. _Holy shit._

 

“What the fuck,” Hwoarang says in lieu of responding, once his voice returns to him. Jin’s eyebrows raise slightly. “What the _fuck?_ ”

 

Jin, naturally, doesn’t dignify that with any sort of answer, instead choosing to stand up from the couch and start coming forward. _Holy fucking shit_. Hwoarang all but launches himself backwards in response, nearly crashing through the door in his attempt at getting away. He just wants to put some distance between them, already on the verge of sinking into a defensive crouch, and really, can anyone blame him? Certainly not Jin, who stopped moving the moment Hwoarang nearly killed himself trying to avoid him.

 

“Calm down.” Jin says slowly, hands out in a pacifistic gesture, and Hwoarang sputters.

 

“Calm down? _Calm down?!_ You’re in my house! You’re dead! What the fuck are you doing here, in _my_ _house_ , when you’re _dead?!_ ”

 

Jin’s expression doesn’t really change, but he sighs, shifting his weight and crossing his arms in what may or may not be discomfort. He’s just...he’s _right there_ , and despite himself, Hwoarang wants a better look. Jin seems...different than he did the last time Hwoarang had seen him, different even from the longed-for figure in Hwoarang’s torturous memories. Sure, he’s never seen Jin wear a long-sleeved T-shirt in all their fleeting moments together, but despite the novelty, that’s not quite it. The darkness in his eyes isn’t as prominent, the shadows on his face a little more withdrawn. He no longer looks as though the world is crushing him with its weight. Even with the overly-familiar gi pants he’s wearing, the picture is just...off. For a terrifying moment, it’s enough to make Hwoarang wonder if he really _is_ here somehow.

 

“I don’t know.” Jin says finally. Hwoarang stares at him.

 

“You don’t _know_?”

 

Jin shakes his head, brow furrowed in concern. _Well_. That makes two of them. If that’s all the information he’s going to get, though, Hwoarang would really rather not deal with this.

 

So he doesn’t. He just leaves.

 

* * *

 

The sky is dark by the time he returns, and his apartment is as well. After some basic reconnaissance, it also seems to be empty, and he curses himself after realizing how warily he’s behaving. This is _his_ damn house! _He_ lives here, not Kazama! Wishful thinking or not, that bastard doesn’t belong here, and Hwoarang has more say in that than anyone else. He has to take a stand. What would his master say if he knew he was creeping around in his own hallways like someone on the run? Ridiculous. He’s better than this.

 

His determination lasts about as long as his shower does, because when he exits his bathroom to see Jin sitting on the edge of his bed with a mug of familiar-smelling tea in his hands, everything he could’ve said just sort of dies in his throat without a fight. Instead, he takes one look at that concerned expression and those surprisingly big brown eyes, and heaves a sigh.

 

“Okay, I’ll bite. What do you want?” He asks wearily. Jin straightens up.

 

“I thought we could talk about this.” He says slowly, presenting Hwoarang the mug of tea like it’s a peace offering. “...calmly.”

 

Hwoarang snorts in derision at that, shaking his head. “Can’t make any promises, but we can sure as hell try.” A pause. “Get off my bed.”

 

Jin obeys, moving instead to settle on the floor. He waits until Hwoarang has gotten himself situated on the mattress before proffering the mug to him again, a little more hesitantly this time. Hwoarang resolutely avoids looking at him when he takes it.

 

“So.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jin nod in acknowledgement. “What the hell are you doing here?”

 

“I’m not sure,” the dark-haired man says, brow furrowing slightly. “I thought I might be dreaming, but this is the first time you’ve ever really noticed me.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“Well.” Jin shifts, looking a little uncomfortable. “I’ve been watching you for a bit now, not realizing that it was...real. When I talked to you, you would hear me sometimes, even though you couldn’t see me. I expected today to be the same, except then...”

 

“...I yelled at you.”

 

“...yeah.”

 

Hwoarang considers this. Suspension of disbelief notwithstanding, what Jin is saying kind of makes sense. It would certainly explain why he’s been hearing his voice lately, although the _how_ of it all is extremely iffy. He hasn’t quite asked about that, but based on Jin’s general lack of understanding, he can assume that he doesn’t know either and that investigating the matter would just be pointless.

 

Still, there’s something else that’s bothering him.

 

“Exactly how long is ‘a bit’, Kazama?” He asks. Jin fidgets.

 

“Um...maybe two weeks?” He replies awkwardly, studying his hands as he speaks. “It’s hard to say for certain. The beginning is...weird.”

 

“Uh-huh?”

 

“Well, like I said, I thought I was dreaming at first. When this started, I think I _was_ dreaming, because it would only happen when I was sleeping. I would see you, and I would remember that I had when I woke up, although it was...strange.”

 

“Strange how?” Hwoarang presses. Jin furrows his brow in concentration.

 

“...I think you were dreaming, too.” He finally says. “I...I don’t remember much of that. Things changed a few days later.”

 

“And what was that like?”

 

“It...it was like I was in two places at once. A dual reality, I guess. When I was sleeping, and when I was awake...I don’t know. I remember what happened to me outside, but...I also remember you.”

 

Jin gazes at him then, eyes filled with hurt. Hwoarang blinks, shocked.

 

“I remember being so happy to see you the first time.” He admits. “I thought I’d killed you, you know. I was so glad to see you alive that it took me a while to realize how strange it all was. Maybe I thought I was imagining it, that I was just dreaming about you to fill the space...I don’t know. But now...”

 

Here, Jin hesitates. He seems nervous about continuing, yet simultaneously convinced that he simply must.

 

“Now, I...I think this is real.”

 

“It had better fucking be.” Hwoarang says bluntly. “If I’m hallucinating you, there is gonna be hell to pay the next time we cross paths, because I can safely say right now that you are single-handedly ruining my entire fucking life.”

 

Jin ducks his head, seemingly ashamed by Hwoarang’s declarations. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Too bad.” Hwoarang sets the now-empty mug aside and grabs his blanket. “Get out.”

 

To his credit, Jin doesn’t ask why or question his hostilities, just takes the mug and quietly exits the room. In the doorway, he pauses, and Hwoarang suppresses another biting dismissal.

 

“Will you be alright?”

 

“Fine, Kazama.” He says firmly. “Just need to think without seeing your face. Or hearing your voice, thank you very much, so kindly keep it to yourself if you don’t mind.”

 

Jin nods, accepting those sternly-worded terms, and closes the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

He wishes he could say that that’s the last he deals with Jin Kazama that night, but of course, it is not. To be fair, he isn’t entirely sure _what_ his nightmare is dealing with, exactly, but he’s screaming Jin’s name when he wakes up so he can guess what it was related to, at least.

 

He also feels like he’s about to cry, which is just fan-fucking-tastic. Life doesn’t get much better than this.

 

“Hwoarang?”

 

Or, evidently, it fucking can.

 

“Are you alright?” Jin’s voice is slightly muffled through the door, and Hwoarang groans, putting his hands over his face.

 

“Fuck off, Kazama.”

 

At this rate, he’ll never be able to sleep again.

 


	3. Like You Own the Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Jin he remembers would not have given up so easily, stupid-noble cause in mind or no. That’s the man he would follow to the ends of the earth. 
> 
> That’s the man he would die for.

Somehow, the scent of brewing tea is what tricks him into forgetting that everything is weird as shit right now.

 

He’s accustomed to the smell, to all the memories and familiar sensations that it instills. He always associates it with long days at the dojang, quiet evenings with his master, good times and bad times alike. It’s one of Baek’s favorite daily blends, one of the simpler concoctions that he brews for casual encounters and health. Hwoarang knows well the process of making it by now, so for a moment, none of it is strange to him.

 

It isn’t until he wakes up a little more that he realizes just how fucking _“if you didn’t make that then who the hell did”_ the whole thing is. _Fuck_. It doesn’t take much more prompting than that to send the rest of the situation raining down on him in a deluge of discomfort and confusion, and he groans aloud, pulling the blanket up over his head and willing himself to become one with the mattress.

 

As if on cue, the object of his distress taps lightly on his bedroom door.

 

“Hwoarang?”

 

Jin almost sounds meek, most likely wondering if he should even bother addressing him after his dismissal the night before. Hwoarang doesn’t budge.

 

“You’re still here, then?”

 

On the other side, Jin’s answering pause is almost audible.

 

“...yes?”

 

“Fair enough,” Hwoarang mutters, raising his voice before continuing, “What do you want?”

 

“I made you some tea. I thought you might like some before you go to see your master.”

 

Well. How considerate. Hwoarang really wishes he knew how to fucking handle this.

 

“...I’ll be out in a minute.” He says eventually. “Just. Stop bothering me.”

 

Jin addresses this by shuffling away from the door, presumably to give him some space, and Hwoarang sighs. This is...this is a lot, but it’s okay. Makes a little more sense than before, somehow, maybe. He thinks. He can do this.

 

Can’t he?

 

“Shut up.” He says aloud, throwing the blanket off and getting shakily to his feet. “Shut up. You’re fine. This is nothing.”

 

A dirty lie, that.

 

* * *

 

Hwoarang can’t help but notice only one mug of tea on his counter, which then raises the inevitable question of whether or not Jin needs to eat. This line of inquiry of course triggers another semi-awkward conversation in which Jin does an awful lot of fidgeting and Hwoarang makes an awful lot of disbelieving noises.

 

“What do you mean, _‘you’re not here’_?” Hwoarang demands, slamming his now-empty mug into the sink with a little more force than necessary. “Said you were real last night, didn’t you?”

 

“And I am,” Jin says quickly. “But...I’m only halfway here. I exist on some plane between this one and unconsciousness, I suppose.”

 

“And what the fuck does _that_ mean?”

 

Jin sighs, looking marginally frustrated. He frowns, thinking hard for a moment, then nods to himself as he seemingly comes to a satisfying conclusion.

 

“Come here.”

 

“What?”

 

“Come here,” he repeats, but Hwoarang isn’t having it.

 

“No way, dude. I’m keeping my space when it comes to you.”

 

“Please?” Jin asks, voice soft. “I want to show you something.”

 

Hwoarang regards him in suspicious silence for several more seconds before surrendering, sighing heavily.

 

“Alright, _fine_.” He huffs, walking over until he’s within arm’s distance. “So, what gives?”

 

Jin surprises him by reaching out and touching his hand.

 

“May I?” He inquires. Hwoarang, baffled, allows the contact.

 

“Think of it this way, I guess.” Jin murmurs. “You can feel me right now, right?”

 

Hwoarang nods, not trusting himself to speak at the moment.

 

“Right. So. I can be like that sometimes. But mostly...I’m like this, I think.”

 

In a motion that can only really be described as flickering out, Jin’s hand sort of...loses its solidity, leaving Hwoarang’s own hand to pass right through it like it isn’t even there. Which is. Which is not weird at all, obviously, and which he definitely doesn’t respond to by jerking his hand away as though he’s been burned by the contact – or lack thereof in this case.

 

“What the fuck.”

 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Jin explains patiently. “I’m here, but...only just. The rest of me is somewhere else.”

 

Hwoarang starts to stare at him, then decides against it, shaking his head and walking away instead.

 

“Sure. Whatever. That’s fine.” He mutters, mostly to himself. Raising his voice, he adds, “I hope you know that I don’t have time for this.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Too bad.” Hwoarang says dismissively, echoing what he’d said the night before. “Now stay out of my way. I have shit to do and I don’t need you fucking it up.”

 

Jin furrows his brow but says nothing, temporarily inclined to do as Hwoarang has asked. Which is...a fucking first, honestly. In all of their encounters, Jin has never shown himself to be a very responsive individual in that regard – he tends to follow his own path, and even when said path didn’t involve ignoring everyone and trying very hard to ruin himself, he’d clearly considered anyone else’s input to be optional. They’re very alike in that way, Hwoarang supposes. Stubborn enough to get themselves killed.

 

Still, his personal experience with Jin’s history makes him wary of this seemingly newfound obedience, and sure enough, the phenomenon is short-lived. Jin maintains his silence for about as long as it takes Hwoarang to start realizing that he, once again, has absolutely no idea where any of his shit is.

 

His gear is _supposed_ to be in his bag, but there’s always a training glove or a guard that he’s misplaced, and don’t even get him started on his goggles. Or his regular gloves. Or his fucking socks, sometimes, which is just the worst. Once those are gone, there’s absolutely no finding them until two weeks later in the weirdest place you can imagine.

 

He isn’t usually this disorganized, but as his mantra has been as of late, he isn’t exactly _okay_ right now. He has a lot on his mind – where he puts his shit is evidently nonessential information that his brain doesn’t seem to find any merit in storing.

 

To add insult to injury, Jin seems to know where everything is much better than he does.

 

“Goggles, goggles, _fucking – where are they_ – ”

 

“Nightstand.” Jin says mildly, interrupting his pacing. Hwoarang shoots him a look, but Jin doesn’t meet his gaze, so instead he just rolls his eyes and goes to check. Sure enough, there they are. _Damn him_.

 

“I didn’t ask.” He announces as he returns to the living room. Jin doesn’t respond, so he might be ignoring him now, but the moment he starts searching for something else, the bastard makes his presence known.

 

His boots, as Jin helpfully points out, are under the table. The bag with all his gear in it is actually still in the foyer where he ditched it in favor of escaping yesterday when he saw Jin sitting on his couch. Worst of all is that Jin knows where his fucking socks are.

 

Still, even with his paraphernalia collected, he’s hesitant to leave the apartment. He can’t go out like this. He definitely can’t go see his master like this – hell no. That would cement his instability once and for all, and Baek would never let him leave until he’d explained himself. It’s just too risky.

 

The acceptance of his strung-out state feels like defeat, but he doesn’t have much of a choice anymore. He texts Baek to let him know that he’ll be taking the day off to center himself and immediately locks himself in his room.

 

Maybe if tries hard enough, he can forget that Jin is still here.

 

* * *

 

Hwoarang emerges from his room some time later, stiff from attempting to meditate and grouchy about the fact that it hadn’t worked at all. He’s never been good at it, so it’s not surprising, it’s just...well. He really could’ve used that self-centering shit today.

 

Instead, what he gets is the sight of Jin sitting at his table with an untouched mug of tea, obviously anticipating his imminent failure and subsequent return to social obligations. He looks up when Hwoarang enters the kitchen, and they hold each other’s gazes in silence.

 

“...that all you know how to do?” Hwoarang asks eventually, resigning himself to his fate and taking the second seat at the table. “Brew tea and disappear?”

 

Jin doesn’t reply, but he does nudge the mug closer to Hwoarang, who takes it. If they guy took the time to make it, he may as well drink it. God knows it’s probably the only thing keeping him from going totally unhinged right now.

 

“So.” Hwoarang waits for Jin to look at him before continuing. “You stuck here?”

 

“I’m not sure.” Jin admits. “I’ve never tried to leave your apartment before.”

 

_Huh_. “That why you sound different when I’m out?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

Neither of them really know what to make of this or how to locate some sense in the whole affair or even how to just _talk_ to each other at the moment, given their current circumstances, so they lapse into silence almost immediately after their attempt at conversation just unearths more questions than answers. Every now and then, Hwoarang thinks he might want to try again, but one surreptitious glance at the infinite distance in Jin’s stupid brown eyes causes all of his words to die in his throat, so he just...drinks his tea instead and hopes that maybe he’ll wake up soon.

 

Surprisingly (although perhaps not, seeing as that’s what he’s been doing lately), it’s Jin who breaks the veneer of awkwardness between them, inclining his head in the direction of the papers covering Hwoarang’s table.

 

“What is all of this?” He asks. Hwoarang huffs and shakes his head.

 

“Work.”

 

Jin raises his eyebrows slightly.

 

“Work?” He repeats, just a tinge of a question hidden somewhere in the word.

 

“Yeah. Work.”

 

If Jin is affected by Hwoarang’s lack of cooperation on the subject, he doesn’t show it, reaching out slowly to touch one of the larger headlines. He probably can’t read it, but the text accompanies a picture of his face, so Hwoarang is pretty sure he can put the pieces together.

 

“Why?”

 

Stressed, confused, and just barely clinging to the tethers of reality by the skin of his teeth, Hwoarang bristles at the innocence of the question.

 

“You know why.” He says, glaring at Jin pointedly. “You’re out there somewhere, and I’m not gonna stop until I find you.”

 

Jin meets his gaze, expression unreadable. Unsurprisingly, he says nothing.

 

Hwoarang sighs, pushes away from the table, and goes back to his room. No point in spending time with someone who doesn’t care about living anymore, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Jin is nowhere to be found when Hwoarang attempts to leave the apartment later in the day, but as soon as his fingers touch the door, he fucking _feels_ him lingering nearby. It’s even more disconcerting than before because now he knows that Jin will be visible to him if he looks over his shoulder, which is just. Wrong. Awful. A horrible, horrible mockery of everything he’s dealing with right now.

 

Still, he turns around anyway, leveling his unwanted houseguest with the flattest, most unimpressed look he can muster.

 

“What.”

 

Jin tilts his head slightly, seemingly unaware that his lurking in the kitchen doorway is unsettling the man who owns the place.

 

“Are you going somewhere?”

 

“ _No_ , I’m just staring at my front door.” Hwoarang says sarcastically, putting his hands on his hips. “Of _course_ I’m going somewhere. What’s it to you?”

 

In true Jin fashion, his reply is a long time coming, and he spends the entire period of ensuing silence studying Hwoarang with an indecipherable look on his face. It’s enough to make anyone avert their eyes, but Hwoarang isn’t just _anyone_ – no, he’s put up with this kind of bullshit for years, from people who were far more intimidating than Jin Kazama could ever dream of being. If he thinks he can get Hwoarang to back down, he’s got another thing coming. Fucker.

 

“You really shouldn’t go alone.” Jin finally answers, attentive as you please, and Hwoarang heaves a sigh. _Unbelievable_.

 

“You’re not coming with me.” He says flatly. Jin shakes his head.

 

“I think I’ll still be in your mind, though, no matter how far away you go.” His voice is solemn, almost gentle, and Hwoarang covers up the urge to panic with a snort of derisive laughter instead.

 

“Yeah?” He fumbles with his door key, aware but valiantly ignoring how his stupid, traitorous hands are shaking. “Well, I don’t want you around. So get lost. You’re not coming with me.”

 

“Aren’t you always alone?”

 

Hwoarang stops short, turns again, and glares at him. Who the hell does he think he is?

 

“Maybe I like it that way, Kazama.” He says shortly, not dignifying the comment with any sort of demand for clarification. “You sure seem to.”

 

He leaves it at that and exits his apartment, slamming the door behind him with more force than necessary. Jin doesn’t seem to be following him. He doesn’t even know if his words had done any damage, but as it stands, he doesn’t particularly care. He desperately needs to calm down, and he’s already figured out the hard way that just can’t do that while Jin is around.

 

Hwoarang decides to skip over his normal stops that afternoon, zipping out onto the freeway instead with little regard for whatever speed limits he might be breaking. He just needs to stop thinking for two seconds, just needs to lose himself in something easy before he has to face reality – or a complete lack thereof – again. Training, for all of its usual merits, just won’t do this time. Training reminds him of Jin. The practice has been permanently tainted in this regard, and at the moment, he doesn’t need that sort of weight sitting on his chest.

 

Or the weight that he swears has suddenly appeared against his back. Hwoarang grits his teeth, mentally aiming several choice swear words in Jin’s general direction. To his infinite surprise, Jin answers, although not in the way he expected.

 

_“Be careful.”_ He says quietly, and the sound is deep inside his head, a lot like it was before when this had first started, albeit more distant. Hwoarang still doesn’t know what to make of it.

 

_“Fuck off.”_ He thinks back at him, and a foreign, faint sense of dismay colors his mindscape.

 

_“You’re going to get yourself hurt,”_ Jin warns, but Hwoarang ignores him. It’s not like he’s ever cared about that, anyway. It’s much easier to pick up speed and let the imaginary ghost of Jin’s arms pass right through his waist.

 

* * *

 

The ride doesn’t help. Unsurprisingly. Hwoarang returns and immediately wastes the rest of the evening poring over useless information that he’s already studied a thousand ways over, each time hoping against hope that maybe he’ll see it differently somehow. If he studies it in this order, will it reveal a new timeline? If he examines it from this perspective, can he put the pieces together more clearly? Can he find a straight answer? Can he find any answers at all? The endless cycle of discovery without actually getting anything _useful_ is wearing on him, but he can’t give up.

 

No matter how futile the endeavor, he just can’t give up.

 

Never mind that giving up just isn’t a directive in his inventory, never mind that he’s spent his whole life fighting against disadvantages and isn’t intending on stopping now. Jin is out there somewhere, and he has to find him. He has to. It’s not a choice he gets to make – it was never a choice, not as long as he’s known him. From the moment they’d met, he’d known that he would follow him anywhere.

 

The Jin he remembers from that first encounter never would’ve put him through this. He never would’ve turned his back on him, on Ling, on anyone – he never would’ve abandoned the world to deal with the problems he’d caused like that. The Jin he remembers would have stayed and tried to fix things, would have tried to protect this place from the ones who came before him. The Jin he remembers would not have given up so easily, stupid-noble cause in mind or no. That’s the man he would follow to the ends of the earth.

 

That’s the man he would die for.

 

And it’s a lot, too much, in fact, to hope that the voice in his head and the figure haunting his halls is the Jin he thought he knew. That would be too easy. Even if it seems that way, even if he listens and watches and acts like he fucking _cares_ , that would just be too easy, wouldn’t it?

 

And even if it _is_ him, what the hell does it all mean? Why is he here? Where is the rest of him? How is this even possible? Why Jin? Why Hwoarang? As if the questions raised by the news weren’t enough, now he has to ponder the particulars of metaphysics and spirituality?

 

_Is Jin even still alive?_

 

A broken, wordless cry echoes in the kitchen, and Hwoarang folds in on himself. Frustration, anger, hurt, fear – it’s all so much to experience at once, and he shuts his eyes, pressing his forehead against the tabletop. He doesn’t know what he feels the most, what’s driving him forward, what’s holding him back. What even is there to know? This shit is going to kill him, and he’s going to fucking let it because what the hell else is he supposed to do?

 

He hasn’t been there for very long when his senses alert him that he is no longer alone, and he raises his head, glaring at the figure in the doorway.

 

“Fuck off.”

 

Jin doesn’t fuck off, and if anything, seems to come closer. Hwoarang shoves his chair back and surges to his feet, far past done with all of this tonight.

 

“What part of ‘fuck off’ is so hard to understand, huh?” He demands, slamming a hand on the table. “I want you to leave me alone!”

 

“But you hate being alone.” Jin says, and Hwoarang stares at him.

 

“How the fuck would _you_ , of all people, know something like that?” He asks incredulously. “You don’t know anything about me!”

 

He doesn’t receive an answer in the form of words, just Jin’s fingers closing around his wrist in a gesture that kills every word in his mouth, every thought in his mind, every feeling and memory and iota of information that makes him who he is. There is rage and confusion and a desperate sense of _don’t you ever let go of me again_ , but it’s all...distant. Strange. Processed through a filter, through a veil, until suddenly it isn’t.

 

The strength to stand leaves him all at once, and he collapses into Jin’s arms, shaking in a poor attempt to refrain from sobbing into his shoulder. Just a second. He can have this for just a second, can’t he? Just until he gets his footing back...just until he can compose himself again and sort his emotions out and figure out a way to look at Jin without wanting to break down all over again.

 

Seemingly not alarmed by this change of pace, Jin supports his weight, free hand coming up to rest on the back of his head. He says nothing, but that’s alright – Hwoarang doesn’t really want him to speak right now, anyway. That would upset this delicate (im)balance even further, and that’s not something he thinks he can handle while he’s struggling not to cry in Jin Kazama’s fucking arms.

 

Because, as if to drive the insanity of it all home, this is familiar somehow.

 

Jin’s body is not foreign to him, and his warmth feels like coming home. He remembers this, except that’s impossible, because they’ve never been this close before. Ever. Not in reality, anyway, but then again, how can the fabrication of his dreams match the truth so perfectly?

 

Unless...?

 

The dual trains of thought running in two opposite directions are mercifully dashed to the wayside by Jin’s quiet sigh, a small sound that is more than enough to pull him back to himself.

 

“Your thoughts are so loud,” he murmurs, and Hwoarang twitches.

 

“What the hell does that mean?”

 

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” He asks quietly, ignoring him. “You don’t need to put yourself through this.”

 

Affronted, Hwoarang lifts his head from Jin’s shoulder. “Of course I do. What kind of question is that?”

 

“You’re only hurting yourself.” When Hwoarang just continues to glare at him, Jin adds, “It’s not worth it.”

 

“I have to find you.” Hwoarang retorts. “End of discussion.”

 

“Why?”

 

Hwoarang gapes at him. “Because you could die out there!”

 

“Who’s to say I’m not already dead?” Jin asks lightly, and Hwoarang pushes away from him.

 

“Don’t talk like that.” He growls, but his voice is shaking. “You’re not allowed to talk like that.”

 

“Even if it’s true?”

 

“It isn’t! Is that so hard to get through your head?”

 

Jin levels him with a serious look, saying, “Wouldn’t I know better than you whether or not I was dead?” and well. That’s the end of that. Hwoarang feels something inside of him come undone, and he lunges forward, grabbing the other man by the front of his shirt.

 

“Shut up!” He hisses, furious, voice rising in volume with each subsequent word. “You can’t be dead, you just _can’t!_ I don’t – I can’t – you just _aren’t_ , okay? So shut up! _Shut up!_ ”

 

“Hwoarang – ” Jin starts, but Hwoarang shakes him.

 

“You deaf, Kazama? I said shut up! Listen to me for once in your fucking life and _shut up!_ ”

 

Is he crying? _Fuck_ , he’s crying. Jin’s eyes only hold emptiness and concern in equal measure, that same, strangely emotive yet devoid expression that’s always on his face just...there. He’s just...there.

 

_(But is he really?)_

 

Disgusted, he shoves Jin away from him, stalking out of the kitchen. The other man doesn’t try to follow, but Hwoarang slams his bedroom door all the same.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up screaming, a petrified, strangled sound that reverberates in his head long after he’s dissolved into tears instead, barely able to get any noise out at all. Half-asleep, disoriented, he doesn’t know where he is, what’s happening, anything. All he knows is that it hurts – _he_ hurts – and that he’s crying and that he can’t stop.

 

He remembers nothing about what he saw, but in a way, he almost wishes that he could. Maybe then he could rationalize it, could think it over, could find a way to remind himself that it’s not real or that he has the power to change it. Instead, there’s nothing, just a faceless, nameless terror that he can’t do anything about.

 

Same as it ever was, really.

 

Head spinning, Hwoarang digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, willing himself to stop sobbing like a child. He doesn’t fucking have _time_ for this. He –

 

“Hwoarang?”

 

At the sound of Jin’s voice, he crumbles again, letting out an incoherent cry and curling in on himself. He can’t do this tonight. He can’t do this.

 

Someone touches his shoulder, slides a hand under his jaw to tilt his face up – in the dimness, Jin hovers over him, eyes wide and dark with worry.

 

“Hwoarang?” He repeats, voice soft. “Are you alright?”

 

He should ask why he came in. He should ask _how_ he got in. He should ask why he’s here, why he cares, _if_ he cares, why _him_. He should tell him to leave. _He should tell him to leave._

 

He does none of those things. Instead, he pulls him closer, and Jin lets him, helps him. Moves so it’s easier for Hwoarang to curl up against him, to cling to his shirt, to press close enough so that he can hear his heartbeat. _He has a heartbeat._

 

He doesn’t want him to leave.

 

“I won’t,” Jin says, almost imperceptible. “Now go to sleep.”

 

Somehow, he does.

 


	4. At My Bedroom Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I could feel it,” he whispers, another nonsensical statement that Hwoarang has no context for. “I’m so sorry.”

Hwoarang is warm when he awakens, unusually so – he feels safe and secure, content to just stay in place and never move from here. He hasn’t been this happy in a long time. It’s...weird, honestly, that he feels this good in the morning, but he’ll take it. He’ll take anything, at this point.

 

Beside him, someone shifts, and Hwoarang blinks his eyes open slightly to realize that he’s wrapped up in Jin’s arms again. _Oh_. It’s no wonder he feels so good – he must be dreaming. A nice dream, of all things, which is a miracle. He supposes he may as well take advantage of it, so he relaxes back into the embrace, snuggling against Jin’s chest and sighing in relief. A trifle embarrassing, perhaps, but his secrets are his own.

 

How long has it been since he had a dream like this? At least a week or two, definitely...they used to happen more often in-between tournaments and army time, although some of them still snuck into his brain while he was stuck doing service, saving graces that they were. They probably manifested most frequently prior to the fifth tournament, which is...pretty strange, now that he thinks about it. Maybe it was due to Baek’s return? That had definitely made him happier, which in turn had influenced his health and sleeping behaviors.

 

Still, though, that...doesn’t feel quite right. He’s almost certain that he’s had at least a few more since then, but when, exactly, he can’t seem pinpoint. Certainly not since he woke up from his coma after Jin nearly beat him to –

 

Jin Kazama. Holy shit. _Holy shit_. He’s in his bed – Jin. Jin fucking Kazama. Is in his bed.

 

He’s not dreaming.

 

_Oh, FUCK._

 

Hwoarang shoots upright, scrambling around to try and get some distance between them. His frantic motions rouse Jin, too, and the other man is alert almost instantly, on edge until he realizes that it’s still just the two of them. Their eyes meet. The expanse of mattress between them feels like too much and not enough all at once.

 

Jin tilts his head. “...are you alright?”

 

“Fine.” Hwoarang replies, wincing internally at how unnaturally strangled his voice sounds when he says it. “Get out.”

 

Jin doesn’t look surprised by his decision, although he does seem a bit disappointed. Hwoarang tries not to think about that too much after he leaves.

 

* * *

 

He goes to the dojang, but it’s a mistake. No surprise there. In his defense, he’d hoped that maybe since Jin was manifesting on a physical level that the whole “voice in his head” part of the deal would be a little less obvious, but that’s actually the problem.

 

His head feels empty and he hates it.

 

After spending so much time grudgingly getting accustomed to hearing things he shouldn’t have been and learning how to accommodate (or at least trying to), the lack thereof is infuriatingly difficult to adjust to. He’s never been good with silence, but now he even finds himself attempting to compensate, intentionally making mental tallies of drills or internally coaching himself through his warm-ups with a fervor that he’s never had before.

 

Ultimately, it’s the frustration at being so incapacitated by the lack of Jin’s presence that drives him to distraction. Here he’s been, trying to get his space, and the moment he has it, he’s suddenly unable to function properly. That’s great, that’s just. Fucking terrific. Absofuckinglutely spectacular. Doesn’t make him look needy or desperate or codependent at all, no fucking sir.

 

 _Unbelievable_.

 

His master, of course, is quick to notice and address his rapidly rising temper.

 

“Hwoarang – ”

 

“No.” Hwoarang blurts out, surprising both of them. He hardly ever cuts his master off, and even when he does, at least it usually _makes sense_.

 

Baek blinks. Hwoarang resists the urge to die on the spot.

 

“Can we please not talk about this?” He elaborates, wincing at how...brittle it sounds. “I’ll focus. I promise.”

 

It isn’t that his master doesn’t believe him, necessarily, but there’s definitely doubt in his eyes despite his acquiescence.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t let Jin anywhere near him that night.

 

He doesn’t speak to him, doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s there. Jin seems to accept it – as he fucking should – but the ease of it all rubs Hwoarang the wrong way, anyway.

 

_Do you want him to stay or do you want him to leave?_

 

The answer is obvious, really, but he’s stubborn and proud and very pissed off at whichever nonexistent god decided _this_ would be a funny fucking joke. He isn’t sure when his life and all of his emotions became the punchline in some grand, cosmic comedy, but he’ll find whoever wrote the script for _that_ one after he’s done finding Jin.

 

He doesn’t let Jin anywhere near him that night, but it doesn’t help, and they end up sharing the bed again, anyway. And when Hwoarang wakes up the following morning, better rested than he’s felt in a month, he has to admit that maybe there’s merit to this bullshit, after all.

 

* * *

 

The trips to the dojang don’t get any better, though.

 

* * *

 

He’s getting good at expecting Jin to pop up in random places. Really. He’s learning a lot. He no longer jumps when he turns around to see him sitting on his kitchen counter, and he barely misses a beat when he comes home to see Jin lurking in his living room. Truly. It doesn’t bother him at all.

 

Despite all of this, no amount of acclimation will _ever_ prepare him for Jin appearing in his bathroom while he’s getting out of the shower.

 

“ _Kazama!_ ”

 

Jin is, as usual, unfazed by Hwoarang’s usual choice of volume and merely gazes at him steadily in response.

 

“I was wondering if you would like my help with dinner,” He offers, and Hwoarang just. Stares at him, completely unable to process anything that just transpired.

 

“What?”

 

“Would you like my help with dinner?” Jin repeats patiently, casual as you please. “You keep eating the same things. If it’s too hard for you to make something else on your own, I could help.”

 

Hwoarang is on the verge of gaping openly at this point, willing Jin to understand just how fucking _weird_ this is without one of them having to bring it up. Jin never seems to get the fucking picture, though – every time, he just arrives, asks his question of the day, and then leaves like it’s no big deal. Which it isn’t.

 

Except, you know, it kind of is.

 

“Couldn’t you have waited?” Hwoarang finally asks, yanking his towel off the curtain rod with more force than necessary. “To do this, you know, when I’m _not_ trying to get out of the shower?”

 

Why the fuck _does_ he do this, anyway? Sure, he doesn’t need his privacy _that_ badly, but it’s definitely a damn safety hazard. 

 

“I wanted to ask before I forgot,” Jin admits, just enough of a sheepish tone to his voice to make Hwoarang grudgingly believe him.

 

“Well, write it down next time or something. You’re gonna scare me to death, popping in and out like that,” Hwoarang grouses, wrapping the towel around his waist. He didn’t really dry off properly, so he’s probably going to drip all over the bathroom floor, but he can’t say that the thought of being undressed in front of Jin is a comforting one. To be honest, he doesn’t know _what_ it is, but the bottom line is that it’s just something he doesn’t want to deal with right now.

 

Jin doesn’t respond to his accusations, merely remaining in place as Hwoarang steps out of the shower and squeezes past him to reach the sink. _Why_ he won’t leave when the bathroom is way too small for the both of them is far beyond Hwoarang, but he resolutely refuses to comment on it. Two can play the “what the fuck” game.

 

Still.

 

Is he imagining it, or are Jin’s eyes lingering on him?

 

* * *

 

Tonight, he doesn’t wake up screaming, although it’s still pretty close.

 

Tonight, he awakens to Jin’s fingertips touching his face, lips close to his ear, murmuring low and sweet nonsense into his hair as Hwoarang pants, trying to come down from whatever fucking nightmare he’d just tried to have. The crushing grip of terror is significantly less potent than it usually is, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why.

 

“I’m okay,” he manages, trying to brush it off, but Jin shakes his head and holds him closer.

 

“I could feel it,” he whispers, another nonsensical statement that Hwoarang has no context for. “I’m so sorry.”

 

Not up to forming more words, Hwoarang just grunts, allowing Jin’s embrace. The other fighter doesn’t seem to be done, though, because he shifts, one hand coming up to cup Hwoarang’s chin. Anything he could say is drowned in his own mind as Jin tilts his face up and presses their foreheads together.

 

“I’m so sorry.” he repeats, and it sounds as though he means it.

 

* * *

 

Jin is sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him as he puts his clothes away. Hwoarang does what he can to ignore him, but it doesn’t come naturally – Jin has always held his full attention without any effort at all, and that doesn’t seem like it’s going to change any time soon. The fact that he’s still reeling from _whatever_ the fuck happened last night is totally irrelevant, thank you very much, and it’s with a certain degree of unnecessary ferocity that Hwoarang flings a balled-up T-shirt at the other man when he looks like he’s about to say something.

 

“Can it, Kazama.” He spits. Jin, of course, catches the shirt, and makes a point of folding it neatly before laying it on Hwoarang’s bed.

 

“You don’t know what I was about to say.”

 

“Doesn’t matter.” Hwoarang yanks the bottom drawer of his dresser open and carelessly dumps a small armful of pants into it. “I don’t want to hear it.”

 

“You know, you should really fold those properly.” Jin says, ignoring him. Hwoarang seethes, slamming the drawer shut and turning to face him.

 

“What, are you deaf, Kazama?” He snaps, frustrated by the measured distance currently present in Jin’s brown eyes. “What part of ‘I don’t want to hear it’ didn’t you get?”

 

Jin looks at him for a moment more, blinking slowly, before getting up off of Hwoarang’s bed and moving past him. Hwoarang hears the bottom drawer open and throws his hands up in the air, not even needing to look to know what his unwanted houseguest is doing.

 

“Alright, _fine_. Have your fun.”

 

He does well, for a little bit. With Jin otherwise occupied by his messy clothes, Hwoarang is freer to focus on the other tasks at hand without the lingering sense of being intently watched hovering in his awareness. One of those current orders of business is his closet, which he’s been meaning to go through for a while now – honestly, who knows what’s in there anymore? He isn’t exactly creative with his outfits or anything. He tends to wear the same five shirts in a month and hardly ever strays from the same general mold of fashion. He doesn’t really need anything else (and can’t really afford it, for that matter).

 

He figures that most of what he finds will be too small or too old (or both), which is why he’s a little surprised to discover a dark green button-up lurking innocently in the back of his closet that seems like it’ll still fit him. Although it looks like it’s never been worn, the tags have already been removed, indicating that it has been used at least once. Did he steal this from somewhere? Maybe it was a gift or something he picked up on a dumpster run? Strange. He supposes that he may as well see if it’s worth keeping, though. Baek _has_ been bugging him about getting some nicer clothes.

 

Once again oddly self-conscious at Jin’s presence, Hwoarang nonetheless faces the wall and strips his current shirt off before shrugging into the other one, slightly surprised to find that it does, in fact, still fit. He really doesn’t remember where or when he got this. He does a few of the buttons up and checks his range of motion, noting that he could afford to roll the sleeves up if he wanted to. Which, if he ever wore this, he probably would.

 

“That’s a good color on you,” Jin says idly, voice materializing from just over his shoulder, and Hwoarang almost chokes. He can feel the heat of his body against his back.

 

“What?”

 

“That dark green.” Jin clarifies, sounding expressionless yet intrigued all at once. “It looks good.”

 

A pause.

 

“Is that the only nice shirt you own?”

 

Now Hwoarang turns all the way around to face him, unable to take much of a step back due to the inconveniently-placed wall right behind him. When did that get there, anyway?

 

_“What?”_

 

“I’ve never seen you dress up before.”

 

“I’ve never needed to.” Hwoarang snaps. “Also, fuck off. Your judgement on nice clothes is shit, anyway. What the hell were you even wearing in all of those news clips? Drapes? And at least I know how to button up my goddamn shirt.”

 

“I know how to do that.” Jin says slowly, and is it just him, or is his voice deeper than usual? “Would you like me to show you?”

 

He’s extremely close. Hwoarang tries to answer and no sound comes out. Jin, of course, does know how to button up a shirt and proceeds to show him exactly that. Hwoarang had never really doubted him for a moment, it was all just for insult’s sake, but he finds that he’s unable to stop him once he’s started. The air feels so heavy, and yet he can’t help but think that, if he speaks, everything will just shatter into pieces.

 

Jin stops working at it after a certain point (right where Hwoarang would’ve left off, actually), but he doesn’t take his hands away. Instead, they slide up his neck to cup his jaw in an agonizingly intimate gesture, even closer than what he’d done last night, and Hwoarang feels his heart just about stop when Jin’s thumb strokes lightly against his bottom lip.

 

_W-what?_

 

“Kazama?” he whispers, unable to manage much more than that. Jin looks at him with those depthless brown eyes of his and Hwoarang feels something familiar tighten in the pit of his stomach.

 

“I can hear you.” Jin answers cryptically, and his voice is so, so soft. “Did you know that?”

 

Hwoarang makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat, past the point of words. Jin’s proximity is horribly distracting, and there’s something about him being this close that makes it impossible to think. He...he wants something. He knows this feeling. He remembers this, somehow, remembers the thrill and the quiet burn and the undeniable sense of longing.

 

“Hwoarang.” Jin murmurs, and it’s his name that makes him snap. Unfortunately for both of them, it’s a panic response, and Jin’s look of complete surprise when Hwoarang punches him in the face would actually be funny if he wasn’t so goddamned unbalanced by the whole ordeal. For several moments, they’re both silent, staring at each other in wide-eyed shock, Jin on the floor and Hwoarang still frozen in the follow-through.

 

This time, when he runs, Jin doesn’t try to stop him.

 

* * *

 

His master is staring at him.

 

Yes, _of course_ Hwoarang had made the mistake of coming here. His first choice when confused by life’s endless games is to go to the dojang, to go to the one place where he’s always been sure of having stability. Never mind that no place has been safe for him lately – the bond he’s built with Baek transcends all of that, so even when it doesn’t really work, he at least knows that he belongs here. Still. He may want to reconsider that, at least temporarily.

 

His master is still staring at him.

 

In his defense, it is entirely merited – Hwoarang, still off-kilter from before, had responded to Baek’s concerned query regarding his recent sleeping habits by _laughing_ , of all things. _Jesus_. He may as well be digging his own grave with a backhoe.

 

“Hwoarang,” Baek says slowly, and years of ingrained instinct have his spine stiffening before he can even think about it. “I have respected your wishes, but I fear this is going too far. I want you to talk to me.”

 

Hwoarang bites his lip. _Shit_. What in the ever-loving fuck is he supposed to say? That he’s _still_ obsessively searching for a dead man’s whereabouts? That the same man may not actually be dead, because he’s been hanging out in his apartment for the last few days? That he’s been sharing a bed with Jin fucking Kazama because it helps him sleep better at night? _That Jin Kazama might’ve almost fucking tried to – ?_ Nothing can convince him to speak up, and so he stays silent instead.

 

Baek sighs and Hwoarang hunches his shoulders defensively, looking at the floor again. He’s not kneeling, but he’s never felt so small and weak in his entire life. Even as a child on the streets, uncertain and alone, he’d never felt like this. He’s letting his master down. _There’s nothing you can say that won’t scare him half to death_. This isn’t about not admitting weakness. _You’re protecting him. What would he do if he knew what a pathetic mess you’ve turned into?_ This is about learning how to handle it. _You can do both. Just look at him._ Hwoarang raises his head, mustering up as much sincerity as he can manage.

 

“I’m getting there.” He says. Baek raises his eyebrows slightly. “I’ll tell you later, okay? I think I can do this on my own.”

 

This is it, the moment of truth. He can’t look away now, but he can’t let him see what’s happening inside, either.

 

“Please give me a little more time,” he continues earnestly. “Please. I won’t let you down again.”

 

An expression crosses his master’s face, a little bit of hurt, a little bit of acceptance – he’s still worried (and rightfully so), but maybe, maybe...

 

“You’ve never let me down.” He says quietly, somberly, almost as though he’s ashamed for having made him think so in the first place, and Hwoarang glances away. Not that he’d really ever thought that, but of course he’s always been afraid of it. He’s good at fucking things up, and Baek only deserves the best.

 

After everything he’s done for him, he definitely deserves better than _this_.

 

Baek sighs.

 

“Are you well enough to train?” He asks, relenting, and Hwoarang nods, looking up again with what is hopefully not an obviously-relieved smile.

 

“Yeah, I think I’m – ”

 

Over his master’s shoulder, he sees Jin.

 

Hwoarang chokes mid-sentence, reeling backwards as though he’s been struck. Baek calls out to him, but he can’t hear a thing – all that exists are those dark eyes looking at him from the opposite wall, suddenly wide with some foreign emotion that Hwoarang doesn’t have the wherewithal to identify at the moment. He feels like he’s been doused with ice-water, and his sudden retreating motion makes his weakened legs give out in their entirety.

 

He crashes to the mat, curled up over his knees, eyes shut tightly as though he can block out what he just saw, somehow. It’s just Jin, right? Nothing strange about that anymore. _He shouldn’t be here._ He hasn’t done anything. They’ve been sharing a bed, for fuck’s sake! _He shouldn’t be here._ He’s gotten used to seeing him around, hasn’t he? Why does seeing him outside of the apartment make the difference? _He shouldn’t fucking be here. Not here. Never here._

 

Dimly, he is aware of his master’s hands on his shoulders, grounding him, steadying him in the same way he always has since Hwoarang was a child. Many a nightmare has been drawn away from him in this fashion, Baek's careful movements and quiet words always enough to reassure him that everything was alright now and that he was finally safe. He wishes it could still be that simple – the comfort is always there, certainly, but he knows this isn’t over. As long as he says nothing and can’t bring himself to get to the bottom of this, this will never be over.

 

_He doesn't want it to be over._

 

“Are you alright?” Baek’s voice is gentle when he addresses him. “Hwoarang?”

 

“Fine,” Hwoarang gasps. Jin is gone now, the space of wall where he’d been standing blank and unassuming as ever, but the weight on his chest remains. “I’m fine.”

 

The concern of his master’s gaze and the warm grip on his shoulders stirs up something of a childhood helplessness in him, and Hwoarang crumples forward into his arms.

 

Baek, as always, is there to catch him.

 

* * *

 

He comes home late that night, spending as much time as he can manage with Baek instead. His master is infallibly patient, foregoing any sort of pressure or line of questioning in favor of making sure that he’s well again. As he leaves, the older man squeezes his shoulder, trying to say more than he can manage with his words alone. Hwoarang knows the feeling, so he understands. When he smiles, he means it.

 

When he gets home, though, he’s right back where he started.

 

The apartment smells like food, of all things, even though he knows damn well that he’s the only person living there who actually needs to eat. The front room is cleaner than it’s ever been, too, which is even more suspicious.

 

He drops his bag in the entranceway and heads straight for the kitchen, not sure of what to expect despite there not being that many options. Someone obviously made food, although how and why, he isn’t sure. He supposes that he also isn’t thinking that Jin will actually be in the kitchen when he gets there, so admittedly, he’s actually a little surprised when he’s wrong. They stand there in silence for several long moments, staring at each other.

 

“Did you do this?” Hwoarang asks eventually, even though he knows the answer by now. “You...why?”

 

“You’re always hungry when you get back.” Jin says nervously. “And I wanted to apologize.”

 

Hwoarang stares at him, the dull ache in his chest intensifying to the point of near-agony the longer he stays there. The weight of it all is crushing him, so he does the only thing he knows how to do to make it go away.

 

He hugs him.

 

Jin goes still in his arms, momentarily surprised by the gesture. As Hwoarang clings to him, however, he holds him in return, one hand coming up to stroke through his hair.

 

“I’m sorry that I scared you earlier.” Jin whispers, and Hwoarang buries his face in his shoulder. “I didn’t think – I’m sorry.”

 

“Shut up,” Hwoarang mutters thickly, holding him tighter. “Just shut up and stay.”

 

It’s the first time he’s actually asked him. Now that he’s said it, he knows it won’t be the last.

 


	5. Now You're in My Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He walks, he walks, but he doesn’t run – that’ll remind him of who he’s chasing after.

Morning comes, as it always does. The night before still lingers in Hwoarang’s mind, dreamlike, a gossamer reality spun by ethereal hands. He hardly remembers yesterday afternoon at all. Everything is strange, mixed degrees stressful and simple fact – spending the better part of the morning in bed with Jin is _so_ far off his track of planned activities, and yet he can’t really bring himself to worry about it anymore.

 

At least, not at the moment.

 

“You think a lot,” Jin says, his voice a low, sleepy rumble. Hwoarang briefly wonders if he even _needs_ to sleep in this state, trying to ignore the thrill of misplaced anticipation that the sound instills in him at such close proximity.

 

“You say that like you’re surprised.”

 

Jin hums in affirmation, and Hwoarang sputters a little, pushing himself up onto his elbows so he can glare at him better.

 

“You _do_ think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”

 

“Only sometimes,” Jin says mildly, the very picture of innocence. “But even if I didn’t, I still wouldn’t take you for the introspective type.”

 

“Pretty sure you’re a prime example of how thinking a lot doesn’t make you any less of an idiot.” Hwoarang replies wryly. “People don’t come much dumber than you.”

 

Jin actually chuckles at that for some reason. Hwoarang would put more thought into it if the sound wasn’t so...nice.

 

“Perhaps.” Jin relents. “But I would say we’re about even there.”

 

“Not even close,” Hwoarang says immediately, and Jin laughs again. _Damn_ , but that’s intoxicating. What’s gotten into them this morning? It’s almost like this shit is _normal_ or something.

 

_...oh, hell._

 

* * *

 

It’s not often that he gets the dojang to himself. His master is usually around, but sometimes he has errands of his own to attend to, needs his space just as much as his student does, and Hwoarang is more or less left to his own devices. A rare opportunity like this deserves to be taken advantage of, and Hwoarang doesn’t intend on letting that go to waste, even when taking certain...outside forces into account.

 

Because _of course_ Jin comes with him. Now that he’s figured out how to make himself more corporeal in other places besides Hwoarang’s apartment, he’s been testing it every chance he gets. He never does it when other people are around anymore, but that’s probably for the best – if Hwoarang had to realize that no one else could see Jin but him, he would probably have a (well-deserved, mind you) mental breakdown on the spot.

 

Even with _that_ ever-present threat hanging over his head, he has to admit that this just keeps getting easier. As the hours pass, it only becomes more natural – _hell_ , if Jin didn’t keep unwittingly reminding him of how damn _weird_ this shit is, Hwoarang probably would’ve accepted this wholeheartedly by now. He isn’t that picky, he’ll take what he can get. _Some_ Jin is better than _no_ Jin, and this one actually looks at him, talks to him, listens to him? Incredible.

 

...maybe he needs to raise his standards a little.

 

“So what are you gonna do?” Hwoarang asks, adjusting his gloves and glancing at Jin. “You just gonna hang out? Or are you gonna practice?”

 

“I would like to spar with you.” Jin says honestly, and Hwoarang pauses. _Holy shit._

 

“Yeah?”

 

His voice doesn’t crack. It doesn’t. Shut up.

 

Jin nods. “It’s been a while. Since we really fought, I mean.”

 

Left unsaid is the implication that their last match at the fifth tournament was a less-than desirable one. Hwoarang can’t really disagree with that, having realized retroactively just how unbalanced Jin had been, therefore rendering the fight and subsequent results utterly void. Sure, he wouldn’t mind kicking his Devil side’s ass, but he’ll take _anything_ of Jin Kazama over some hackneyed not-rivalry with a semi-supernatural being any day.

 

“You’re not gonna...?” Hwoarang starts, not sure if he should finish the thought out loud. _Flip out and try to kill me again?_

 

Even though he didn’t say the words, Jin flinches as if he had, looking at the floor.

 

“Something happened, then.” He says quietly. “Something I couldn’t control, but things were...different. Things _are_ different. I...”

 

He looks up again, brow furrowed slightly. “I’ve been waiting for it to come back, but...I haven’t sensed it since I got here.”

 

Hwoarang quirks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

 

Jin nods, but doesn’t elaborate, which. Which is just. Fine, obviously. The notion isn’t as sarcastic as it usually is, though. The how and why of Jin being here is nigh impossible to pry apart, so why should he care about the particulars of what his Devil counterpart is up to? He hardly understands that shit to begin with, and Jin’s reticence does the subject no favors. If it’s a non-issue, he isn’t going to press the matter.

 

Not when they could be sparring, instead. Maybe his master is right and this one-track mind of his is going to get him killed someday, but for now, the heart wants what it wants and what it wants is a sparring match with Jin Kazama. Hwoarang _really_ isn’t a delayed gratification kind of person.

 

“Well, that’s good to know.” He says. “You ready?”

 

Jin seems grateful that he isn’t going to pry, and even appears a little less somber than before. They take their places across from each other, simple and natural as breathing – this _is_ what they were made for, after all. Hwoarang wonders how long it’s been since Jin sparred for fun.

 

There’s a moment, right before they come together, where Hwoarang is suddenly afraid that something will go wrong. That it won’t be the same, that it’ll have lost its luster. The thrill is there, but that’s just the anticipation – what if all the waiting and wondering and crushing uncertainty has drained the experience of all its life? He can’t imagine the possibility, but even as Jin motions him closer with that confident jerk of his head that Hwoarang loves so much, his stomach clenches in a way that isn’t entirely excitement.

 

He shouldn’t have worried.

 

For the first time in a while, everything just slides into place, strikes and stances and every step in between. Jin responds to his rhythm in the same way he always has, precise and perfect, the picture of focus and one-hundred percent effort. When they trade blows, it feels like coming home. When Jin blocks one of his attacks, it feels like magic, and when Hwoarang does the same, it feels like deliverance. It’s everything he’s been missing, everything he’d known he’d needed and even then some still.

 

It’s just as good as it’s always been, if not better.

 

The natural flow of it overtakes them with ease, the motions as intuitive and well-timed as dancing. He feels good, great even, blood singing with _excitement_ and _thrill_ and _joy_. He’d had no idea that he’d needed this so badly.

 

Best of all is that Jin seems to share his sentiments. The other man matches his enthusiasm blow for blow, pressing his advantages when he can and always finding clever ways to try and keep Hwoarang from doing the same. Once, their glances catch – Hwoarang knows he’s already grinning, the adrenaline too much to pass up, but it still surprises him – and Jin _smiles_ , a devastating echo to another fight back when they were nineteen and riding high on knowing nothing about the world around them. He’ll never forget that.

 

One thing he _has_ forgotten about Jin, though, is his goddamned floor routine. It’s been a while since he dealt with someone who fights that way, so when Jin catches him off balance and all but tackles him to the mat, Hwoarang definitely isn’t prepared to throw him off. _Fuck_.

 

“You don’t really wanna end the match on a pin count, do you?” Hwoarang huffs, trying to dislodge his rival’s grip. Jin hums.

 

“It’s not so bad from here.” He replies musingly. “Do you have a preference on how I flatten you?”

 

Hwoarang laughs despite himself, the sound a little strained from the pressure of being held down. Even with his impending loss, there’s something about this that makes it okay – Jin, teasing him. Enjoying himself. Happy. He’s happy, too.

 

“Just don’t wanna see your stupid face.” He manages, struggling a bit more for show. Jin chuckles.

 

“How unfortunate.”

 

Before Hwoarang can ask what he means by that, Jin is moving, changing their positions so that he’s doing the exact opposite of what Hwoarang asked for. In his new place, their faces are quite close, never mind that he’s straddling Hwoarang’s hips and pinning his wrists down to keep him from making an escape. It’s all very cliché, but Hwoarang laughs anyway, unable to stop himself after seeing the mischievous triumph in Jin’s eyes.

 

“Proud of yourself?” He asks sarcastically, and Jin smiles again.

 

“A little.”

 

Hwoarang rolls his eyes. “I think you’ve definitely won by now, though. My back has been touching the floor for waaaay longer than three seconds.”

 

“Mhm.”

 

Despite that, Jin doesn’t move. If anything, he just leans in, seemingly intrigued by something. Like a flipped switch, his previous attitude has all but dissipated, leaving that familiar mystery behind to be as confusing as ever. It’s a classic Jin Kazama move, constantly resetting to what Hwoarang assumes is his default state, but this time it feels a little...different.

 

Maybe it’s because, up this close, he can really see the details in Jin’s face, the exact shades of brown in his eyes, the thickness of his eyelashes, the light flush on his skin. The focus of his gaze has Hwoarang looking elsewhere, _everywhere_ , seeking some safe place to linger on and realizing belatedly that, this close, there really isn’t anywhere to look that isn’t incriminating as fuck.

 

Once again, Hwoarang is astounded by the sheer intensity of his reaction to Jin’s proximity, especially in this context, and the new kind of adrenaline thrumming through his veins is like a drug, heated and pleasant as it steals beneath his skin. Every place that their bodies connect feels warm, and when Jin touches his face, strokes his cheek with his thumb, he doesn’t flinch. Something whispers to him – _closer, come closer, just stay_ – and he can feel the words on his own tongue, echoes of things never spoken.

 

Or were they?

 

“Hwoarang.” He swallows at the sound of his name, knowing already how different it feels when Jin is the one saying it. There’s no denying that. “I...”

 

His eyes are depthless, and for a moment, Hwoarang has the insane desire to drown there. To keep him close, to never let go, to just let _this_ and _that_ and _everything_ happen, all at once with no sign of stopping. A shift of weight, a catch of breath, Jin leans closer and _gods_ Hwoarang just wants to grab him by the hair and pull him the rest of the way –

 

Except he doesn’t have to, because Jin has crossed the last scant inches himself, mouth warm and softer than a dream against Hwoarang’s own and for a moment, his entire world turns white.

 

The next thing he’s actually conscious of is kissing back with everything he has, fingers tangling in Jin’s hair as the other man presses him into the dojang’s mats as though he can get them any closer together that way. His breathing is strained, his heartbeat racing, and when Jin’s exhale carries just the barest hint of a moan, he almost loses his mind.

 

Something shatters inside his head, walls raining down glass and debris and thousands of fractured memories. Jin sighs into his mouth and Hwoarang just wants to melt underneath him, _into_ him, letting their colors come together and become one unified, long sought-after shade. Defenses collapse under the weight of something else, something powerful, something strangely familiar – he can hear himself, almost like it’s another lifetime, crying out for Jin in the darkness even though he hasn’t said a word.

 

_Almost like –_

 

Hwoarang inhales sharply and _pushes_ , meeting no resistance once Jin realizes what’s going on. The other man sits back, his breaths heavy, his eyes wide and almost vulnerable as he looks down at him.

 

“Are you alright?” he asks, and Hwoarang has to fight the urge to pull him back to him again.

 

“Get off.” Hwoarang says tightly. Jin obeys him without question, moving off his legs to sit on the floor beside him.

 

“Are you – ?”

 

“Shut up.” He feels like he can’t breathe. “I need to leave.”

 

Something inside of him aches, and _gods_ , he knows this fucking feeling. He knows it, he remembers it, and what it means is all-too obvious now.

 

“I need to leave,” he repeats, and so he does.

 

* * *

 

He walks, he breathes, he considers.

 

He walks for hours, walks until his feet hurt, walks until the sun is setting and the whole day has been wasted. He walks like it’ll help him figure this out, like it’ll make a difference in how he handles this. He walks, he walks, but he doesn’t run – that’ll remind him of who he’s chasing after.

 

He breathes, and it hurts. He doesn’t know if that helps or not. At first, it’s just heavy, a weight that has nothing to do with physical exertion. It’s a feeling he’s familiar with, the endless ache of _wanting_ and _needing_ and _gods, wouldn’t you just **die** for it if given the fucking chance_. He knows it, he remembers it, remembers how it colored the fourth tournament, those two years in the military.

 

That distant space in his mind, locked away until now, his most shameful secret that he hadn’t even known he’d had. Those gentle whispers, those intimate silences, the all-consuming feeling of _finally_ and _please_ and _this is all I’ve ever wanted, please don’t take it away from me_.

 

 _Finally_ and _please_ and _Jin, I don’t wanna live without you_.

 

He breathes, and as he breathes, he learns. Every waking moment brings it back a little more, clarity shedding light on things he was never supposed to remember. Dreams that were supposed to dissolve into the flow of time simply waited for him instead, waited to be released by a single, soft murmur of his name. It’s hard. It’s hard to breathe right now, why is it so hard?

 

He breathes, and it hurts so fucking bad.

 

He considers. He considers a lot of things, much more than most people would give him credit for. He considers telling someone. He considers never coming back. He considers flinging himself in front of a car, just to see how it’ll feel. If he’ll wake up. If he can give himself a better excuse for these jagged edges in his chest and this wetness on his face than Jin.

 

More than anything, though, he considers giving in.

 

He doesn’t know what this is. He probably never will, but it’s getting harder and harder to care, more and more difficult to pull away when Jin gets too close. He’s so damn _scared_ , but is he scared enough to let this go? To forfeit this chance? What makes this so different from every other stupid thing he’s ever done? What makes Jin Kazama so different from every other person he’s ever met?

 

For the first time since he got out, he wishes he was still in the military. Just for a moment, just long enough to ignore someone else’s orders and fling himself into the fray without a second thought. Just long enough to damn the consequences and rip himself a little farther from his own humanity one stolen life at a time. Just for the distance, the adrenaline, the opportunity to just. Stop. Thinking.

 

_“What are you so afraid of?”_

 

They’re his own words, spoken from some faded memory, some half-forgotten, self-spun tale that he won’t be lucky enough to live. Some gentle, made-up place where he got his chance and an outstretched hand is all it takes to call Jin to him. Some quiet, distant world where he was visited in dreams during his three days of comatose silence...some quiet, devastating world where, just for a moment, Jin had finally been his.

 

They’re his own words, and it’s with a desperate ache that he realizes that his answer is the same as Jin’s had been.

 

_“Losing you.”_

 

* * *

 

He is reminded of that first night when he returns to an empty apartment, resigning himself to Jin’s absence only to find him when he comes back from the bathroom. He’s sitting on the edge of Hwoarang’s bed again, expression pensive – he doesn’t have any tea this time, but Hwoarang can tell just by looking at him that he has that afternoon’s altercation on his mind. He sighs.

 

“Can it wait?” He asks tiredly. “I don’t think I can do this right now.”

 

“I don’t really want to talk,” Jin admits. “I...I’m sorry.”

 

“You’ve been saying that a lot.” Hwoarang says bluntly. “Why bother? S’not gonna fix anything. I’m still a fuckin wreck and you’re still an idiot.”

 

“I did this to you.” Jin whispers. “I never knew that. I didn’t understand.”

 

Hwoarang looks at him for a moment, his messy hair, his perfect features, his unbelievable brown eyes. The concerned expression on his face, the sincerity in his words, the silent plea for acceptance in his posture. In some way, he needs this, too.

 

“Let’s just. Go to bed.” Hwoarang sighs. Heaven forbid any of this shit make sense, anyway. And if he takes comfort in the warmth of Jin’s arms around him, well. That’s for him to know.

 

He can deal with the rest of this shit in the morning.

 

* * *

 

He can deal with the rest of this shit at 2:17 AM, which is technically the morning, but definitely not what he fucking meant.

 

Jin’s heat is pressed up against his back, his arm draped protectively over Hwoarang’s waist. His breathing is deep and even, but Hwoarang can feel that he’s awake – again, he still isn’t sure if the other man needs to sleep, but he’s betting on no – and that he’s holding him this way _on purpose_.

 

“What are you doing?” Hwoarang hisses, although he doesn’t roll over and break the hold. Doesn’t want to. Won’t admit that he likes this, too.

 

To his surprise, Jin answers him.

 

“I just wanted to see what it felt like.” His voice is soft, painstakingly gentle, and Hwoarang knows how his stupid body is going to respond to that before it actually does. How it’s already responding to this position, to this proximity, to the sensation of Jin’s breath against his skin. Naturally, he takes the bait.

 

“What does?”

 

Jin’s response is nothing like Hwoarang expects, nothing like he’s ever imagined would _actually happen_ – he shifts, arm drawing back so that his hand is resting on Hwoarang’s waist instead, thumb lightly stroking against the smooth skin there. Hwoarang jolts in surprise, but when he tries to turn and look back, Jin presses his hand flat against his stomach, keeping him in place. He freezes. What is he doing? What the hell is going on?

 

“You’re warm.” Jin murmurs, saying it like it’s something to be relieved about. “This feels good. You...you feel good.”

 

For a moment, that seems like the end of it, but then Hwoarang feels him nuzzling the back of his neck. He freezes.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Jin sighs before he speaks again, the movement of his lips against Hwoarang’s skin almost making him shiver.

 

“You’re warm,” he repeats, infinitely gentle, almost reverent. “There is sunlight inside of you, colors and the sky. I want you close. I want you here. I want...”

 

He trails off, and instead of finishing his statements with words, he presses a very deliberate kiss to the same place he’d just nestled up against and Hwoarang swears that his brain is on the verge of shorting out. Is he breathing correctly right now? Is he even alive? His rival pulls him closer, lightly scraping his neck with his teeth, and Hwoarang gasps aloud.

 

“Kazama, what the f – ”

 

“Hwoarang.” Jin says, and his voice is suddenly deeper than it had been before, warm and soft and very close to his ear. Hwoarang shivers. Jin presses tightly against him and lets out a low moan, the vibrations fanning out along Hwoarang’s skin, and he has to suppress an embarrassing sound of his own.

 

“Kazama,” he starts, but there’s a tone in his voice that makes him stop talking before he goes too far. _Don’t._ If his body is responding like this and his heart had already decided on it years ago, his willingness to carry this further will follow soon after. As much as he wants this, fucking _needs_ this, he can’t let that happen. He just _can’t_.

 

...right?

 

Jin’s hand slides up to his chest and pulls him underneath, rolling him onto his back so he can hover above. His motions are swift and fluid, almost practiced as he maneuvers Hwoarang beneath his own body with ease, and it’s much more of a convincing element than it should be. Jin leans over him and Hwoarang’s thoughts stutter to a complete stop, words and fears drowned in the depthless light of Jin’s eyes even as he turns his gaze away.

 

Except the fears are there, right alongside the hurt, the confusion, the _ache_ that lives between his bones and veins with every waking moment. It’s so much.

 

“Hwoarang.”

 

He bites his lip. That voice, that goddamned _voice_. Every word just gets under his skin, just settles there until he swears he can hear it when he’s alone. In his dreams, in his nightmares, Jin’s voice follows him.

 

“Hwoarang.” Jin repeats, slow and impossibly gentle. “Look at me.”

 

He shuts his eyes and turns his head. This is too much to want at once, too much to need right this goddamn second. He wants this so badly that it hurts. He wants to let him take everything he has to give and then some, especially if it means that he’ll stay. He wants to let him in. He wants to keep him here.

 

“Why are you doing this?” he manages, opening his eyes to meet Jin’s dark gaze again. “What do you want?”

 

His voice is raw, almost scared, and Jin shushes him with painstaking care, murmuring softly as he strokes a few strands of Hwoarang’s hair back off his forehead. _It hurts_. He needs Jin to answer him, needs this one thing – he needs to know _why_ this is happening, _why_ the other man is here, _why_ he’s touching him now like he’s something precious. What does he want? _What do you want?_

 

“Hwoarang.” Jin’s voice is so deep and Hwoarang shudders, his eyes squeezing shut. _It hurts._

 

“Please.” His own voice breaks. _It fucking hurts._

 

A second of silence, and then a gentle brush of lips against his forehead has Hwoarang’s eyes flying open to stare up at him, wide and disbelieving. Staring up to see the other man gaze back at him, something agonizingly familiar in his eyes and oh, _gods_ –

 

“I want _you_.” Jin whispers, and kisses him.

 

Hwoarang is on him in an instant, tangling his fingers in Jin’s hair like he can keep him there forever. Jin seizes him in return, tilting Hwoarang’s head back so he can kiss him better, and _fucking gods_ he could just die from this _right now_. It’s heaven and hell in equal parts, a purgatory of surging emotions and forbidden release – it hurts, but more than anything, it’s absolute rapture. Jin kisses him and he kisses back, not hesitating in doing so for even a moment. He can’t. He just can’t do that anymore.

 

Jin releases his grip and settles down on his forearms instead, pinning him to the bed with his entire body, never breaking contact as he completely overcomes Hwoarang’s senses. The way he’s got him boxed in so tightly, like he doesn’t want him to leave? The way he sighs into his mouth when Hwoarang lets him in, like that’s what he was waiting for the whole time? The way he moans quietly, a low rumble in his chest like he’s been wanting this, too? It’s just about enough to kill him.

 

Hwoarang doesn’t want there to be any space between them right now. He wants him so close that he can hardly tell their bodies apart. It’s Jin Kazama, and he’s holding him down against the bed and kissing him senseless and Hwoarang doesn’t ever want him to stop. It’s Jin Kazama, who shouldn’t be here, who should be gone, who would never touch him like this in reality. _Would he?_ It’s Jin Kazama, who never leaves Hwoarang’s thoughts, who never strays far from his heart, who he just can’t seem to let go of. _Could he?_

 

Jin’s weight presses into him, body firm against his own, all-too real and almost painful with the amount of detail that he’s experiencing. _Don’t forget_. Jin kisses him, holds him close, wraps his arms around his back and groans softly at the way Hwoarang reciprocates the action. _Don’t let yourself forget._ Their bodies grind against each other, slow and firm and extremely deliberate, and Hwoarang pants desperately for oxygen that doesn’t seem to be doing him any good.

 

_Don’t forget that you could lose this._

 

He wants him to stay. He wants him to be close. Wants him to be even closer, if anything, but he can’t possibly ask for that. That’s beyond weakness of the mind or an admission of his inner conflict – that’s permission.

 

But he doesn’t need to ask. He doesn’t need to give his permission. Jin already knows, and he already has it.

 

“Hwoarang,” Jin says softly, lips brushing Hwoarang’s own. “I want you.”

 

Hwoarang groans, head falling back, unable to think straight with Jin murmuring in his ear like that. _Please_. It’s so hot, he can’t breathe, he feels like he’s burning up. Jin is between his legs and is methodically taking advantage of it, the slow, crushing roll of his hips sending uncontrollable shudders through Hwoarang’s body. _Just do it_. It’s hardly fair to ask at this point.

 

But again, he doesn’t need to ask. They both know why.

 

“I can hear you,” Jin says, and his voice is so deep that Hwoarang aches at the sound of it. “I know what you’re thinking. Your thoughts are so loud.”

 

“Then what are you asking for?” Hwoarang gasps, but it’s merely a reflexive response. _Please_. Jin shakes his head.

 

“I need to hear you say it.” He couples his words with another roll of his hips, and Hwoarang moans, fingers digging into Jin’s back. _I need **you**_. He kisses him again, warm and familiar, and _gods_ this is just too much. He wants him so badly.

 

“Why?” He manages, and something incoherent rumbles in Jin’s chest. _Jin, **please** –_

 

A hand slips down Hwoarang’s stomach and between his legs and, before he can say anything else, dips below the waistband of his sweatpants. Jin is – _gods, fuck, gods!_ Jin is touching him like that, running his fingertips along the skin of his inner thighs before coming up and oh, _oh fucking hell, Jin!_ Hwoarang’s whole body jerks and Jin ducks down, kissing his throat even as he begins to stroke his arousal fervently, and Hwoarang whimpers his name before he can stop himself from doing so. He can’t take this _._ He’s so wired up already, this alone would be more than enough to finish him –

 

But that’s not what he wants, not in the end. He wants more than that, but there’s nothing he can do to stop his hips from jerking into Jin’s touch, to stop his legs from parting wider to accommodate his actions better, to stop his head from falling back as Jin’s mouth burns against his neck. _Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop_. Hwoarang’s fingers dig into Jin’s muscular back and he moans softly, the multiple sensations somehow both agonizing and too good to be true.

 

As if to solidify that, Jin’s grip tightens. _Jin._ Hwoarang gasps, whimpering mindlessly at the unbearable pressure and holding onto the other man with all he has left, his body moving without any input from his mind. He’s never wanted something so badly in his entire life.

 

“Jin,” he chokes, and then his rival is kissing him, and then he’s coming all over their stomachs as the pleasure takes him under.

 

Hwoarang pants, chest heaving, feeling Jin’s soft lips brushing his cheek, his hairline, his forehead. It’s gentle, almost affectionate in nature, and the emotions that the actions stir up inside of him are that much stronger for it. He kisses back when Jin’s mouth returns to his own, slow and easy and quiet, the new lack of passionate desperation connoting more intimacy than before.

 

“I want you.” Jin repeats, murmuring softly against his mouth. “Hwoarang, please. I was there, too. I remember. I want that. I want _you_.”

 

The words, even now, are unbearably sweet to listen to. It sounds so gentle, so quiet, so lovely to hear him seeking this, to hear him almost begging for it. For once in their lives, they are on even ground. Jin wants Hwoarang as badly as Hwoarang has always wanted him. Reality or dream, heaven or hell, today or tomorrow, he knows what he feels, and that’s enough for now. _What are you so afraid of?_ He takes Jin’s face in his hands, gazing up at him, memorizing this moment as much as his hazy thoughts will allow him to.

 

“I’m already yours,” he says, knowing its truth despite everything else. “I always will be. And don’t you fucking forget it.”

 

Jin smiles at him, soft and secret and beautiful, and kisses his forehead.

 

“Thank you.”

 

He completely loses track of things at that point, already overstrung and breathless after having come by Jin’s hand once already. Overstimulated and out of his depth, Hwoarang can’t hold back when his rival touches him now, moaning openly with each careful movement of Jin’s fingers. Every ragged breath carries something with it, a soft cry, a hushed plea, a desperate prayer of Jin’s name – he doesn’t know, will probably never know, will never be able to remember anything past the bursts of pleasure that come when Jin touches him.

 

Through it all, he can feel his lover’s eyes on him, even when he’s shuddering uncontrollably from Jin’s hand on his arousal and mewling every time Jin crooks his fingers. He can hear him speaking, but it’s through water, a distant sound of something that has him trembling nonetheless. He begs for him, unable to think, unable to do anything except _want_ and _need_ and _Jin, please, **please**_. The pleasure is already too much to handle, and in his half-aware state, he barely has the wherewithal to wonder how he’s supposed to make it through the rest of this.

 

Because then the rest of it happening, and the air is frozen in his lungs as Jin settles against him, within him, slow and careful and so, _so_ warm. He whimpers. _It’s so much_. A slight shift has him gasping, and Jin rains gentle kisses along his forehead, his cheeks, his mouth, attentive and intimate and _gods_ , this is just so _much_. His breaths are heavy and he swallows, trying to get his bearings before reality gets ripped away from him again.

 

“Are you alright?” Jin murmurs, his voice unimaginably soft. He kisses him lightly, stroking his hair with sweet reverence. Hwoarang can’t speak for it all, so he nods instead. _Yes_. Who knows what he would say aloud if he could manage it?

 

Jin takes his time, kissing him long and slow for a while before focusing on his throat, sucking marks into the smooth skin that have Hwoarang writhing beneath him. He grips at Jin’s shoulders with shaking fingers, clinging to him, trying to ground himself with the one thing that’s casting him adrift. _It doesn’t matter_. He wants him. He wants him, he wants him, he wants him. Nothing can stop him now, and doing so is the farthest thing from his mind. Hwoarang tilts his head back and pleads with him – his breathing has started to pick up again, sharp gasps and pants echoing in his own ears, and then Jin is moving and it’s like nothing he’s ever known before, because it’s Jin.

 

It’s Jin, who moans into the curve of his neck and shudders when Hwoarang tenses up around him. It’s Jin, who moves with single-minded purpose and precision, finding a brutally perfect rhythm and timing that has Hwoarang choking on his moans every time he thrusts his hips. It’s Jin, who pushes himself up and looks down at him like he’s seeing him for the first time, something soft and reassuring in his gaze as he seems to make a point of taking it all in.

 

“Hwoarang,” he calls softly, and the sound Hwoarang makes in response is incriminatingly close to a sob. Hearing his own name on the other man’s lips is better than it has any right to be, and he arches up, moaning when he feels his rival’s teeth against his neck and shoulder again.

 

Jin crushes him against his body, holding him overly close as though he can feel that he’s starting to come undone. Hwoarang calls his name and Jin _answers_. He calls out to him over and over again, uncaring of how obvious it all is, and Jin answers. He murmurs his name, kisses him, whispers these gentle things into his skin that, in his weakness, bring tears of longing to Hwoarang’s eyes. He’s never wanted anything more than this. He’ll never want anything this much again.

 

_Jin._

 

He hits the point of no return before he’s ready to, and in that moment, Jin says something that makes his entire world dissolve.

 


	6. But Darling, You Can't Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ever since you showed up, I’ve been fighting with it, trying to stop myself from giving in, and now I know why! I can’t live when you’re gone – _I don’t know who I am without you anymore!_ ”

The sex, of course, makes everything worse.

 

The fact that it keeps happening doesn’t help at all, either, and every stolen moment grows long with Jin leaning over him, lips on his throat as he holds him down against the bed. Hwoarang doesn’t have the heart to resist him anymore, doesn’t want to, doesn’t even pretend – how can he?

 

Jin murmurs sweet promises to him, echoes of their previous assurances magnified by the intimacy that they now share. He whispers his name, reverent and longing, and Hwoarang practically begs for it. All he’s ever wanted from this man – his respect, his attention, his affection, _everything_ – is right here, and it’s so, so easy to just lose himself in that.

 

He might love him. He knows it’s something like that, something that’s too strong to turn away from and too much to admit aloud. He loves Jin fucking Kazama, and there’s nothing either of them can do about that now.

 

He can’t tell how he feels about that, about this, about any of it. He has lost, essentially. This whole thing was a fight, a battle, a fucking war, and he has lost it quite spectacularly. Learning all the secret things he already knew about himself is a piss-poor consolation prize, too, and he just doesn’t understand how it came to this.

 

Except he does. How the hell is he supposed to stop loving him when even _this_ can’t do it? He doesn’t want to stop. He needs this, more than that, he _wants_ it. Even with the lingering sense that something, _something_ is terribly wrong, he can’t seem to let it go. Not yet. He’ll think about what that might be later.

 

Because right now, he can’t lose him. He would rather have this than nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

Jin’s fingertips trace idly up and down his spine, a habit he’s quickly developed over the past couple of days when they’re in bed together. His eyes have not left Hwoarang’s face for a long time, making the redhead curious as to what the other man is thinking about. It isn’t strange for him to zone out, but he doesn’t appear to be – his countenance is one of awareness, and Hwoarang can feel the way his gaze flickers around as though examining each feature individually.

 

He wants to stay here. He doesn’t want to leave this bed, to leave his apartment, to leave Jin. He doesn’t want to go to training. He just wants to stay, maybe coax Jin into holding him again. Such a thing isn’t much to ask for, nor is it hard, as Jin always seems more than willing to oblige him.

 

Hwoarang shifts, about to speak, but Jin doesn’t let him. At the precise moment that Hwoarang starts to form the words, the other man leans in, pressing his mouth to Hwoarang’s and silencing him in the most effective way he knows how.

 

Minutes pass. The first time he returns to himself, he’s on his back and Jin is kissing him senseless, moaning quietly into his mouth and practically begging him in a hushed, desperate voice, _Hwoarang, please, let me. Can I?_ Hwoarang nods, breathless as he drags him in for another kiss.

 

Jin is gripping at his lower back, their legs tangled together, his breath hot in the crook of Hwoarang’s neck as he moans against his skin. The pleasure is rising, and Hwoarang is panting, Jin’s name on his lips.

 

Jin has pressed their foreheads together, murmuring softly to him as Hwoarang shudders, dangerously close to the edge of climax.

 

“Please stay with me,” Jin whispers. Hwoarang doesn’t get to answer with the way he’s whimpering, but he tries, anyway.

 

_Always._

 

* * *

 

He should think more about what this means. He should think more about that nagging suspicion that he can’t seem to pin down. He should think more about how this is possible, about how it happened, about how it’s going to affect him in the future.

 

And he will. He’ll think about it. He’s already worrying about it, so it’s on his mind, at least. It’s weird. It’s complicated. It’s...a lot. And he’ll think about it, whether he wants to or not. He owes it to himself, to Baek, to Jin, even, to give it the thought that it deserves.

 

Just...not yet.

 

* * *

 

The sunlight warms their skin, lighting Jin’s eyes to a degree that nothing else does. His hair has hints of brown in it, too, making it less severe than the pure black Hwoarang had thought it was before. There’s a softness to him here, one that Hwoarang likes almost as much as the harder, fiercer edges. Soft Jin talks to him. Soft Jin stays. Soft Jin doesn’t seem to mind being here, in his apartment, in his bed, watching idly as Hwoarang watches him in turn. He looks almost peaceful, fine features contoured by the sunlight – he’s beautiful, although Hwoarang has always known that.

 

Jin kisses him, hums against his mouth. Presses their foreheads together in that way he seems to like doing.

 

“You think so?” He inquires. It takes Hwoarang a moment to catch on, but when he does, he laughs a little. It’s strange how such an inherently invasive concept as hearing his thoughts doesn’t seem to bother him as much anymore.

 

“Yeah. That weird?”

 

“I don’t think so.” Jin says slowly, studying his face. “I don’t think so.”

 

* * *

 

Alright. He’s taken enough days off. He’s already messaged Baek and told him he’d be coming today, so he can’t back out of the commitment now. Besides, he’s finally feeling up to training, to sparring, to everything he’s been struggling with up until this point. His master will never believe that he’s suddenly fine now, and while he technically isn’t, he may as well ride the high of it while he still can.

 

Really, though, he feels...so much better. It’s weird. Maybe a little scary. The pair of them will get to the bottom of this eventually, though, so he isn’t too worried about it yet. They have time. He deserves this, doesn’t he? Just a minute of something good?

 

“Are you leaving today?” Jin asks, looking up from where he’s been studying the back of Hwoarang’s hand. Hwoarang nods.

 

“I got real life shit to take care of, you know.” He teases. “But I’ll be home this afternoon. We can. You know. Talk about important stuff then.”

 

Jin hums, releasing Hwoarang’s hand so he can go.

 

“I’ll be here when you get back, okay?”

 

Hwoarang grins at him, leaning down to steal one last kiss before leaving the bed.

 

“I know.”

 

* * *

 

“You have to let go.”

 

Hwoarang glances over at his master, quirking one eyebrow up in silent question. The older man has been...strange today, ever since Hwoarang showed up. He’d seemed worried at first, most likely thinking of the last time they’d seen each other, but as the session progressed he’d only become increasingly perplexed. Surprised. Almost wary, in fact, which is something else entirely. Hwoarang thought that Baek would be relieved to see him acting normal again, but if anything, he’s just become even _more_ concerned than before. He keeps looking at him funny, even when he hasn’t said anything. It’s weird.

 

“Everything alright?” Hwoarang asks instead of answering, deciding follow up the implication with a verbalized response. “You’ve been off today.”

 

“As have you.” Baek replies evenly, which. That’s not right. He’s been fucking _great_ today. He hasn’t felt this good in ages.

 

“Wait a second,” Hwoarang starts, but Baek shakes his head. “No, really! I thought I was doing good!”

 

“It is not your form or technique I am worried about, Hwoarang.” His master says gravely. “It is your mind.”

 

Hwoarang freezes. Suddenly, the opening to the conversation makes a lot more sense. _Maybe this was a mistake._ If he backs out too quickly, then his master will know for sure that something is still going on, but...he can’t just tell him the truth. That would go down even _more_ badly.

 

“...you really aren’t gonna let this go, are you?” He manages, trying to seem flippant. Baek, of course, can see right through his paper-thin disguise and just looks disappointed in him for even attempting to use it. _Ouch._ “Seriously. What are you – ?”

 

“I know you’ve been searching for Jin Kazama.” Baek interrupts, and Hwoarang. Well. So much for trying to stay in control of the situation.

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“You weren’t subtle about it.” Baek explains patiently. “You never have been. I had hoped that you would eventually come to terms with the loss and learn to move on, but evidently, the opposite has come to pass.”

 

Hwoarang gapes at him now, barely following along.

 

“Isn’t. Isn’t this coming to terms with it?”

 

“As I said, the opposite has come to pass. Rather than accept it, you’ve coped with your emotions by developing a false reality.”

 

Hwoarang narrows his eyes, trying and failing to ignore the distinct sensation of being analyzed. What his master is saying isn’t entirely untrue, after all – he _has_ been ignoring the truth (whatever the hell it is) in favor of enjoying this secret time he has with Jin. However, what his master _doesn’t_ know is that this is only temporary. Sooner or later, he’ll get things back on track.

 

As for that _false reality_ bit, well. That can’t be right.

 

“Now you’ve lost me.” He says flatly. He’s not going on the defensive. Maybe he’s crossing his arms, but that’s only because he’s displeased with this whole conversation and he can be a little belligerent like that sometimes.

 

“You’ve lost yourself.” Baek counters evenly, and there’s something about that particular phrasing that won’t let him push it aside. “I am not certain as to how, but you have. You do not have the luxury of idle time spent wishing for a better day, Hwoarang, nor can you afford to linger in this world you have created for yourself. You must move on. The rest of us will not wait for you, and neither will Jin Kazama.”

 

_The rest of us will not wait for you, and neither will Jin Kazama._

His chest feels tight as he replays the words, some sickening feeling covering him from head to toe. _He’s right._ He knows how it got this far, but. But. He’d never meant for that to happen. He hadn’t thought it was _that_ dangerous. Maybe it isn’t, normally, but what he carries for Jin Kazama has never been _normal_. It’s fierce, unrestrained, something wild and entirely uncontrollable. He’s never understood it, has never been able to keep it from interfering with his life – it infected his comatose state, brought him back from near-death and every struggle imaginable time and time again even as it almost killed him. It never failed, but it never gave him what he really wanted, either. It just let him chase it for another day, that bright, incorporeal feeling that could either give him strength or just be the death of him. He’d always seen it as the first. His master, clearly, had always perceived the latter.

 

With this inexplicable, intangible _thing_ , Hwoarang has somehow discovered a third option that was previously unknown. A middle ground, if you will, a place where he can only get his footing at the expense his sanity. Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s worse.

 

Whatever it is, he can’t stay here a second longer.

 

* * *

 

“ _Kazama!_ ” He shouts, slamming his apartment door behind him. “Kazama, come out here right now!”

 

Jin had said he would be here when he got back. Thinking about that and everything it entails already makes his resolve start to slip, so he steels himself and pushes it away. He doesn’t need to be weak right now – he needs to take a stand and get a fucking grip. He needs to figure this out. He needs to know _why_ this is happening to him, and he needs to know _now_.

 

Eventually, Jin appears, somewhat hesitant as he steps out of Hwoarang’s bedroom. He’s completely silent when he approaches. The fact that this unnerves him gives him the courage to continue, and he takes a deep breath before speaking again.

 

“This needs to stop.”

 

Jin’s brow furrows, but he says nothing, silently asking Hwoarang to continue. As if he doesn’t want to do this enough already.

 

“This... _thing._ Where you hang out in my house and talk to me and stuff. It’s – it’s fucking my life up. My master is more worried about me now than he was when I was pulling all-nighters and having mental breakdowns, and I don’t like that. So either we figure out _exactly_ what’s going on _right the fuck now_ or you go back to wherever the hell you came from and leave me – ”

 

His voice betrays him on the last cadence, wavering pitifully before he can get all the words out. Jin’s gaze, which had been trained on the floor prior to that, snaps to his face.

 

“You don’t have to do this.”

 

Hwoarang snarls, more at himself than at Jin, and clenches his fists. _Focus_. He’s an expert at talking without thinking, at rushing forward without reflecting – _use it. Don’t think, just talk. Don’t wait, just go._

 

“You’ve derailed my life from the moment I met you.” He starts, and Jin goes quiet again. “Everything about you, everything about where we met, what we did – all of it threw me off-course and there was nothing I could do to get that balance back. You filled a void I’d always felt even as you made new ones for me to die in, giving me strength and breaking me down without even trying. Without even looking. Without even acknowledging that I was there, sometimes, even when I tried to help you. Even when I beat you. You never cared about anything but your own stupid bullshit, and I had to just sit there and deal with the fallout cuz I’m stupid and don’t know when to quit.”

 

“But then you almost killed me. Then you actually almost killed me, and then you showed up. There. In my head. You remember – you said you saw me. I remember now, but only cuz of this. And then I woke up and then you disappeared and – and – and – you’re _here_. I don’t know how. You talk like you’re tied to me somehow, like you’re in my head, like you’re in my body or my soul or what the fuck ever, but it doesn’t matter because even if you’re real, you’re. Not. _Here_.”

 

“You’re out there, somewhere, and I’m _here_ , fucking around with a hallucination or a memory or yeah, maybe it is your fucking _soul_ , but that’s still not comforting and it’s still ruining my fucking life! It’s gotten past the point of wanting to get stronger or needing to see you – I can’t breathe when I think I might have to live in this fucking place without you! Ever since you showed up, I’ve been fighting with it, trying to stop myself from giving in, and now I know why! I can’t live when you’re gone – _I don’t know who I am without you anymore!_ ”

 

He’s shouting, he’s on the verge of crying – his whole body is shaking, fingernails digging into the palms of his gloves. If he wasn’t wearing them, he would surely be drawing blood. He almost wishes that he was.

 

“I don’t know anymore,” he halfway repeats, helpless. Terrified. Unable to face the truth of what he’s spoken but knowing it nonetheless. Jin, at least, looks respectably unsettled as well, his whole demeanor thrown by Hwoarang’s potent distress.

 

“...I didn’t mean for this to happen.” He says softly. Hwoarang shakes his head.

 

“Then what the hell _did_ you mean, Kazama? What the hell did you think would happen? What the hell did you _want?_ ”

 

“I just wanted...” Jin trails off, looking mildly frustrated with himself. “I just – I thought – I thought you would want this. That this would be making the best of a situation that I couldn’t really seem to get out of.”

 

“I want _you_.” Hwoarang corrects him, barreling on before Jin can voice his confusion. “You, for real. Safe. In a world that isn’t shitty and in a way that isn’t confusing as hell. In a way that makes sense and in a way that doesn’t fucking _suck!_ This spirit-bonding shit is all well and good, but if you’re still out there somewhere, I want to fucking know!”

 

“Why does it matter to you so much?” Jin asks, still soft, and oh. _Ohhh, boy_.

 

“Were you fucking listening to me _at all_ , Kazama?” He’s just itching to kick something, but he reigns the impulse in, knowing that it won’t do any good right now. “I need you to be alive! I need you to be alright! I need you to get your fucking _shit_ together and do the right thing! You can’t ruin everything and then come crawling over here to have some – some – some secret little _hideaway_ place with me! I’m supposed to be living in the real goddamn world, and it _sucks!_ And _you_ made it that way!”

 

Jin is gazing at him steadily, not surprised by any of his words, but seemingly affected nonetheless. Hwoarang powers on, furious and relentless and entirely broken.

 

“You fucking _want_ something? You fucking want _this?_ ” His voice wavers again for a second, still disbelieving, but then he remembers himself. “That’s fucking news to me, jackass! You couldn’t have wanted this while you were pushing everyone away? While you ignored Ling and Julia and everyone else who’d ever shown you an ounce of kindness? While you looked right through me and acted like I wasn’t even there? Fuck _off_ , Jin! Grow a fucking backbone! If you want this, you have to fucking fight for it! Like I did! Like I am! You think I’m trying to find you for fucking fun?”

 

He might be about to cry, or vomit, or faint – he doesn’t know. Maybe all three at once with how out of control he’s feeling. Like he’s falling apart again. Like he’s someone else. Like this is all horribly, horribly wrong.

 

Jin takes a breath.

 

“If I tell you – ”

 

“ _Please_.”

 

Jin gazes at him for a while, something wavering in his expression. There’s uncertainty present, fear, pain – Hwoarang can only imagine what his own face reads like, desperation, worry, fury. So similar and yet so different, a pair of planets each spinning in their own, separate universe.

 

Finally, Jin shakes his head.

 

“Fine.” His voice – he sounds like he’s on the verge of crying. Hwoarang blinks.

 

“You – ”

 

He never gets to finish that sentence. Jin chooses that moment to surge forward, to grab the back of his head, to crush their mouths together and silence the thought before it even exists. He kisses him with urgency, like he needs him to be close right this instant. Like he can’t stand to lose him. Like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to do something like this.

 

_Oh._

 

Hwoarang gives him the moment, takes it for himself. Kisses back with as much intensity as he’s receiving. Jin sighs, the sound just shy of a sob, and pulls away just a breath so that their foreheads are touching. His thumb strokes Hwoarang’s cheek.

 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers. “I never meant to hurt you this much. I hope you can forgive me someday.”

 

Hwoarang doesn’t get to ask what he means by that. The last thing he's aware of before blacking out is the sound of Jin saying his name one more time.

 

* * *

 

He awakens with a splitting headache, and he groans, shutting his eyes against the light coming though his window almost immediately after opening them. The pain is nearly intolerable, a hangover to end all hangovers, except he really doesn’t remember having anything to drink within the last several months. He feels stiff and sore, maybe a little sick, although that could just be the hurt talking. This is by far the worst headache he’s ever had.

 

He makes to sit up, then decides against it – even that little bit of motion sends a powerful wave of nausea rushing through him, and he freezes, trying to breathe evenly in an effort to make it subside. He digs his fingers into the sides of his head, focusing on willing the feeling away.

 

It takes him another moment or two before he realizes that the room is almost deafeningly silent. He is also very much alone, which is strange. Usually Jin is with him. Usually –

 

_Jin._

 

His eyes fly open, fully registering for the first time that he’s in his bedroom rather than the foyer. Hwoarang props himself up on his elbows, ignoring the agony just for a moment as he glances wildly around the room, trying to understand just what the hell is happening now. How did he get in here? He remembers yelling at Jin, remembers Jin kissing him...after that, he’d said something, but that’s all he can come up with before the memory goes black.

 

_Is...is he gone?_

 

With a growing sense of bewildered unease, he tries to put the pieces together. He’d confronted him...had more or less asked him to leave by the end of it, insisting that they both get their lives back from whatever was holding them hostage before it was too late. Jin had...agreed with him, maybe, or he’d just given in. He can’t remember.

 

Hwoarang flops back against his mattress, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes as he tries to get himself together. His headache is making that very difficult, but even so, he can’t help but wonder. After all, he feels...emptier, somehow.

 

_...he really **was** here, right?_

 

* * *

 

Later, he enters the kitchen to find that his table has been cleared off. The newspaper articles, the clippings, the photographs, all of it – gone. Taken without prejudice by some stubborn, external force that refuses to do things in any other way than his own.

 

For a moment, Hwoarang can’t breathe.

 

However, there is one thing left. A little slip of paper, unassuming against the weathered surface and very noticeable with all of the other chaos finally missing. In a way, it almost calls to him, trying to tell him something. Dreamlike, he approaches.

 

At first, the Japanese characters are incomprehensible to him, relics of some smarter man’s past when he could think straight and wasn’t utterly numb. Then, the longer he stares, the pieces start to come together, falling into place in a way that they never had before.

 

Numbers. A location. A lead.

 

Underneath that, Jin’s careful handwriting. Hwoarang reads the note, parsing through the simplified characters, and swallows around the lump growing in his throat.

 

_He was real._

 

* * *

 

_You gave your life to me. I won’t forget it._

_Thank you._

 


End file.
